The Inner Monologue of a Bloody Snowflake

Breakfast time. I can’t settle. My brain is hopping from thought to thought.

Hmm, this toast is nice. Do we need more bread? I wonder if I eat too much bread. Does that carb thing actually hold much value? Depends on the nutritionist, I suppose. And the body. What will I have for lunch?

Looks out the window. My office is going to be hot. Did I put on deodorant? Sniffs, yep.

Anyway, this article. Oh, there might be a war. Keeps reading. Yep, seems likely. Well, deodorant feels like an inconsequential worry now. Many people will be distressed today, and there are already many suffering. And here I am in my nice kitchen worrying about shite all.

It was an informative article. I should add a comment... Notices a bird flying past, thinks about how many people will do the same, but in horrendous conditions. Nope. Can’t think of a comment that doesn’t sound trite. Stupid brain.

My heart feels a bit fast, like anxiety. Does a quick body scan. It could be worrying about the world, attacks, vitriol and panic. Or maybe it’s a migraine. That can be one of the symptoms. Do I even have migraines? Only two of three consultants seemed convinced.

Maybe it’s ADHD. But I’m organised.

Maybe it’s an autoimmune thing, someone’s suggested that, too. Wiggles fingers, checking for pain. Mild shakes? Sort of.

Maybe it’s perimenopause, except I’ve had these symptoms for ten years.

Maybe it’s the toast - what does glucose intolerance feel like?

Maybe everyone feels like this, and I’m just being dramatic. Bloody snowflake.

Ooh. Maybe I could write about this. Another article. Feels a bit personal, though...

But then again, maybe that's the point. That so many of us are carrying overlapping symptoms, histories, worries, and trying to make sense of them, in between the toast, perimenopause and war.