We collapsed the camping tent and, immediately, my symbolic safe space had been rolled up into a bag. Enter the nausea.

Having an anxiety disorder affects my life quite enough the way it is. Throw something as big as house hunting into the mix and it’s very easy to become overwhelmed.

For anyone with an anxiety disorder, surgery can be a special kind of hell. Consider anesthesia: a numbing of our consciousness that’s beyond our own control.

We need to play an active role in our own treatment. We can’t just close our eyes and let our doctors make the decisions that will affect our bodies.

Part of the beauty of books and notebooks is this: we use them. We use them up. We crumple them, we write in or on them, and we make them ours.

I want to create a truce with caffeine. I want to recognize that my body’s reactions to this drug are completely normal. I want to train myself to be comfortable with caffeine again.

Maybe this is where I just need to let go. Just let go of my thoughts. All of them. All of my worries. All of everything.

Only a few days left, and I’m still ruminating about everything that could go wrong on the big day. Let’s see how many of my worries I could formulate into a list or two.

I understand that a rapid heartbeat is a normal part of panic. But it feels so abnormal and wrong. What if this is the one time where a medical emergency is presenting itself?

Instead of stopping, I’m going to try harder. After all, I really want to re-wire my brain and all of my negative thought patterns. Like, really. Like, I’ve-been-panicking-for-nearly-two-years-straight-now really.