I can't believe I'm doing this.

So with the writing, I kinda stopped. I didn't think I needed to put down anything on the off chance that this was the reason I was crazy. I always wrote when I felt insane, because it felt like something that needed to be done. I don't know if this is a needed action, I don't feel too crazy right now. I suck at typing now, I've noticed that.
Up until a week ago, life was pretty sweet, now it feels a little out of my control. I spose I could wrestle it back into my control, keep on running and doing my normal routine, act all right, is probably exactly what I need to do. I don't want to voice my anxieties, on the off chance they become true. That's actually more of a reluctance to give them a voice, let them become something "real" instead of random thoughts I brush away.
I'm being hit with a sweet wave of nostalgia. Back when I first started this blog, in my Dad's basement while I worked at the gas station, then took that job at Lincare. Back when I was sleeping with David Purvis, and pouring all sorts of stuff I never knew I had into here. It's amazing how things can be so significant years after they had seemed so mundane.
That flight gave me a lot more than a ride home. It cleared the way for living, which is what I've been avoiding for so long. Things have sort of lost their scariness, I almost feel like I can accept life, good and bad, for what it is and where my place is in it.
But parts of me still softly whisper fear in my heart.
Those are the thoughts to brush away. Those are the anxieties that don't need to be given a voice. Stuff them in my anxiety closet like I do all the rest of my junk. Stick them beneath the broken and chipped furniture, the crushed boxes, the cushions and pillow on top of empty paint cans and forget about them, surrounded by all the junk I no longer have a need for.