In Progress

Everyone is sorry.

I am too. 

Mostly, though, I'm scared. 

Scared of how far it bleeds into my life. 

I don't enjoy smells. 

Or food. 

Or being pretty, honestly all three make my stomach churn. 

I'm anxious to the point of trembling. 

Chewing my jaw. Grinding my teeth. 

Everyone is sorry. But asks me how I am? 

Knowing I'm unable to answer that question. 

In progress, I respond. It feels more true. 

Than okay. 

I am not okay. Not even a little bit. 

I'm frazzled. I'm nervous. I'm afraid. 

I feel best in the sunshine. 

Free. 

I wish I could feel it all the time. 

But then I always did. So maybe I'm getting back ? Maybe.