In my freezing house, gripped by fear, I scrawl ‘things can get better’ on a chalkboard

theguardian.com:

I have a visitor that stops me sleeping, wakes me early in the morning and hangs around most days uninvited and unwanted: I am living with fear.

Each day when I open my eyes, there’s a few seconds of semiconscious calm before my heart sets off to sprint in this race without end. Sometimes I try to calm myself down with deep breathing, but mostly I simply flee from my bed, the cold biting deep as I descend the stairs to make tea and talk myself down. Breakfast is impossible with adrenaline coursing through my body at max strength.

I have a chalkboard in the kitchen where I used to write shopping reminders. Now I use it to self-medicate, with greetings card therapy written in my scrawly hand: “Things can get better” and “Nothing lasts for ever”. I repeat them out loud to try to will them to be true.

I feel constantly vulnerable from the insecurity that has invaded my life: the rented roof over my head, precarious freelance work, the cost of living now I’m in my early 60s. I’m not the only one going through tough times, but when I close my front door, I am alone.

I share about my predicament, up to a point. I recently house-sat for a friend, who left a note beside the central heating thermostat: “Don’t be cold.” The pure joy of hot radiators and oven-roasted vegetables was a great respite. But I tend not to talk about the darker stuff around losing work and having no safety net, because I am embarrassed and ashamed.

Friends’ lives are neat and orderly. Mine is a cold mess. Seated at a friend’s dining table, in their warm house, I prefer to savour every minute rather than dredge up the fears that are following me. And the thought that perhaps I could end up homeless.

I play a game of sliding doors in my head and wonder how it must