This one goes to eleven...

Last night was so stressful I couldn't even really write about it. Which is, of course, why I determined to write about it when I was feeling better.

Last night, I felt like the world was screaming at me. Every sound, pounding like a hammer on my eardrums, even the sound of my own voice was nearly unbearable...but I felt so anxious that I couldn't stop talking.

Last night, music had to be eliminated from my ear-space.

Last night, tears came easily. And every other texture, sight and sensory input was just too much.

Every knob was turned to eleven. I tried to ignore it, but that's never the best option...the anxiety just increases and increases until I acknowledge it, so it's better to acknowledge it early and start the progress back down the hill. I sat in the car for half an hour while Sonny went into the bar to play a gig. I had to. I was just barely in control of the variables in the car; I was not ready for the next batch in the bar, a batch I would not be able to corral.

It's been a long time since I felt that way...and it was useful to remember that and note the progress. But in the moment that mental post-it delivered no comfort.