I scare myself more than any movie or book ever could.
Now I’m not talking about the stories I write. Those can get a bit hairy, but I wouldn’t say any of them keep me up at night.
No, I’m talking about the everyday, mundane crap that seeps into my head and sends me on a roller coaster ride of emotions. Like the slow build-up at the beginning of the ride, I’ll read something or see something on tv. No big deal, really. Just the steady clunk-clunk-clunk of the chain pulling me higher and higher. Then almost without warning I’m released unto the terror of dips, dives, and loop-the-loops. My mind filled with a train of what if after what if after what if.
Is it a panic or anxiety attack? I don’t know. I’ve never tried to receive treatment for it. Thinking about that is likely to cause another theme park attraction-like event.
Oh, and I’m NEVER allowed to Google symptoms of whatever I think I’m ailing from. My mind is incapable of shutting that shit off. It’s walking through a maze of mirrors. Do I have that symptom, or do I just think I do because the online interactive nurse asked me if it was happening, too. And if I don’t have that symptom, is it because I’m not paying close enough attention to my own body to know that I’m on the cliff of YOU’RE ABOUT TO DIE???!!!!!??!!!!!
There you go. A quick glance of the dark side of an active imagination.
Please turn out the light as you go.