When I woke this morning in the dark, humid bedroom, hearing the rain beating down on all sides, it seemed to me I was cured. Cured of the shuddering heartbeat which has plagued these last two days so that I could hardly think, or read, for holding my hand to my heart. A wild bird pulsed there, caught in a cage of bone, about to burst through, shaking my whole body with each throb. I began to want to hit my heart, pierce it, if only to stop that ridiculous throb which seemed to wish to leap out of my chest and be gone to make its own way in the world. I lay, warm, my hand between my breasts, cherishing the surfacing from sleep and the peaceful steady unobtrusive beat of my rested heart. I rose, expecting at every moment to be shaken, and indeed I was not. I have been at rest since waking.
like i’ve been wanting to jump off a bridge but i am too physically and emotionally exhausted to get out of bed. that’s where i am right now.
i’ve been feeling awful but i’m still here. so there’s that.
I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.
—Virginia Woolf, Diaries Volume One 1915-1919 (via violentwavesofemotion)