Endomerimnasturm

It's especially strong at night, the squall within her head turning sleep into a faraway island, impossible to reach through the arcing, crashing waves. The hours stretch out, out to an untouchable horizon, darkness and nothingness and no one else left living in the world but her. And then suddenly the light between the curtains is pale lavender and orange and she has slept, somehow – and instantly it's back, floodwater lapping her chin: something's wrong. Before she is even half-awake, before she can formulate a clear thought, there is simply the wordless, shapeless sense: something bad is going to happen. You're failing. You're sinking.

The daylight hours aren't much better. She can distract herself only in short bursts before the TV becomes meaningless, murky noise, the words blur and drip off the pages of her books. The fear demands all of her attention.

Being around other people might be the worst of all. She knows she's not fooling anyone with her forced smiles and hollow laughter. She lets herself be shepherded out for after-work drinks, but she's a whirlpool in the floor of the bar, dragging everyone down with her. How much they must resent her for ruining everything yet again. She comes home exhausted, aching with the effort of treading water all evening – but then she can't sleep, as the night's worst moments replay themselves over and over.

"You should let yourself have more fun! Don't worry so much, you'll feel better if you just try!"