It’s been about 105 days since I returned to work, and lately, I can feel that familiar wave of anxiety creeping back in—the same kind that once pulled me under. The tightness in my chest, the racing thoughts, the sense that something is unraveling even though I’m doing everything “right.”
What’s strange is that I can’t remember the last time I truly cried. Not a frustrated tear here or there, but a real, body-shaking, soul-cleansing cry. I think it’s been at least eight years.
I had a small release when our sweet Dasher passed away—a few tears slipped out that day, but it was short-lived. Then, just like that, it was gone. Back to nothing.
For the past few days, I’ve felt that familiar lump in my throat, the one that means a good cry is trying to find its way out. But it never does. It just sits there, waiting, pressing down on my chest. I think not being able to cry is a big part of why I can’t seem to fully cope or move forward. It’s like my heart is begging for a release that my body just refuses to give.
I have an appointment with Dr. Wood on Wednesday to talk about whether my antidepressant might be numbing me too much. I’m grateful for the stability it brings, but maybe in trying to stop the crash, it’s also stopping the release.
Lately, my nights have been filled with doomsday dreams—dark, vivid, and exhausting. I wake up already drained, as if I’ve been fighting battles in my sleep.
I’m realizing that sometimes, “not losing control” isn’t about holding everything together. It’s about allowing yourself to feel—even when it’s messy or inconvenient. Maybe the goal isn’t control at all. Maybe peace comes from giving yourself permission to break, to cry, to let go—so you can start to heal again.
Behind The Brown Door 