Before I Even Woke Up

I had a dream last night. It wasn't a good one, and it wasn't a nightmare either. It was one of those lucid ones — except this one made the nightmares of nightmares scared.

I'm not going into detail. But this goddamn thing had my body in full blown panic mode before I even woke up and knew it.

Then I woke up.

Felt a little off, didn't think anything of it. Then my eyes fully opened.

And it all hit me like a ton of bricks. First thought after the initial WTF was, oh shit, what happened.

I knew nothing had happened. But with anxiety, your brain and body lie to you. And I don't mean little lies. This fucker will go right for your deepest wounds, throw salt in them, follow it with a red hot poker, then twist the knife just for good measure. Even when you know it's not true, it will still convince your body and your subconscious that it is.

I spent all day spinning my wheels trying to get out of the funk. Saw my kids. Spent time with them. Got some food. Got some work done. It should have been, and was, a great day — other than I was anxious as fuck the whole way through it.

And here's the part I keep coming back to.

The guy I was before my brother passed is gone. He died with my brother. The guy that's left, I don't know. He's still picking up the millions of tiny pieces and putting himself back together again.

He knows he'll never be the same.

And I have to be ok with that.