Anxiety may be a Bitch, but Depression is an Asshole

So I have anxiety.  It seems pretty clear now.  I’ve been having a nasty anxiety attack all day long today, and this isn’t the first one.  It seems to come in rare, acute bouts.  I’ve only identified it since my depression got under control.  The depression just overpowered everything else, and put its flavour on everything else, and basically was just such a dick all the time that I didn’t even know there was other shit going on.  It was all just one giant stew of feeling like shit.  Depression-flavoured shit.  So I have anxiety.  I’m having a terrible anxiety attack.  I have no fucking clue what to do about it.  I don’t have tools for it.  There’s one thing I know would help, and it’s the one thing I know I absolutely can’t do (no not self-harm – that ideation is weaseling its way in on this, but I don’t have any intention, and I don’t fear acting on the ideas) – anyway there’s only one thing I know would help, and it’s the one thing I absolutely can’t do.  So that fucking sucks.  Writing this is helping, so that’s something.  But I have no damn tools or skills for this!  Fuck you, depression.  Seriously.  Fuck you.  I should have at least some idea of what to do about this, but no, you had to make everything about you for 25 years.  You’re an asshole.

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