I'm Not Sorry

I was sitting down to write another long rant about how I hate this panic stuff and I hate being out of control of my body and its reactions and I hate all this medication stuff where the side effects are annoying and yet the actual effects are minimal. When I started that rant, the first thing I did was apologize for going on and on about this, especially since it doesn't really prompt the sort of response and interest as does a book review, and so I figure I'm either boring you all or making you uncomfortable. So I was apologizing in advance. And then suddenly I thought to myself, 'What the fuck do I have to be sorry about? It's my blog. I have something to say. That's the whole point of it.' And so, I'm not sorry. And now I am liberated, right?

Except not so much. Especially since the next thing I started to write was how I'm sorry that I just don't have the strength or ability to focus long enough to really write about this with any insight or thought or anything that would make it worth reading. Again, I realized how ridiculous that is. What do I have to be sorry for? And do I really feel sorry? Well, I feel sorry that my brain is all over the place right now. And I feel sorry that my chest is tight and I have this pain that's intermittently travelling across my chest. And I reallly feel sorry that I feel both dulled and hyper at the same time, and that I'm filled with a sort of luke-warm anger at the world in general for completely inexplicable reasons. I'm sorry for all that. So I guess what I'm really saying is that I'm feeling sorry for myself. But I'm not sorry about what I'm writing, or what I'm not writing. That would be ridiculous. And pathetic. And not worth any of our time.