It all started with a phone call. My anxiety was through the roof, and I felt dizzy, shaky, and completely out of control. I knew I needed to get home, but I wasn’t okay—not even close. As usual, I called him. His calm voice is my anchor, always managing to soothe me, even when I’m at my worst. He asked me, over and over, to drive safely. But I was too far gone, too overwhelmed to really listen. My thoughts were spiraling, my heart pounding in my chest, but I got behind the wheel anyway. I knew I wasn’t okay to drive, but I did it anyway.
It was already dark, and I was on those narrow village roads, the kind with sharp bends and no streetlights. Normally, I’d take them at 60 mph, but tonight, every bend felt like a death trap. I was so anxious, so stressed, that I could barely focus on the road ahead. I saw the sharp left turn coming, but I was going too fast. I knew I wasn’t going to make it. Panic took over, and instead of trying to brake, I just covered my face with my hands. I couldn’t deal with what was happening, so I just… gave up.
The next thing I remember is the sensation of my car flying, and then the brutal crash. The airbag knocked me out. When I woke up, I was in the hospital, surrounded by doctors and police officers. My anxiety skyrocketed. Male staff members made me panic, and I couldn’t make sense of anything. Everything was a blur, and I felt like I was suffocating under the weight of my own fear. I slipped back into unconsciousness...
When I woke up again, it was 4 a.m.—my usual routine, the time to get out of bed. But this time, I was in pain, every breath a reminder of what had happened. The doctors finally managed to talk to me, explaining that I had a head injury and three broken bones. The police officers returned with my belongings—my phone, keys, medication, anxiety card, and, of all things, my cosmetic bag. It was almost funny in a tragic sort of way. 😔
The first thing I did was call him. I had to tell him what happened, even though I dreaded his reaction. When he answered, his response cut through me. He didn’t yell or judge, but his words, “I nicely asked you one thing only. To get home safely,” made me feel ashamed, guilty, and even smaller than I already did. I could hear the worry in his voice, not anger, just concern. He wasn’t judging me, but I knew I had let him down. My anxiety, once again, had ruined everything.
Now, lying here in this hospital bed, I’m overwhelmed by the consequences of my actions. My anxiety isn’t just my problem—it’s affecting the people who care about me. I don’t know how to make it right, how to stop this cycle of fear and mistakes. All I know is that I need to find a way to keep going, even when it feels like my anxiety is driving me to the brink. But right now, I’m just so tired, and the road ahead looks impossibly long. 💔