There’s something inside of me right now that feels like it’s tearing me apart. I don’t know if it’s the season, if it’s the flu that knocked me out last weekend, or if it’s just the weight of trying to chase a goal I might not be able to reach. But my chest has been a pit of worry, my brain a broken record of fear, and my body feels like it’s walking around in a straightjacket.

I can’t breathe normally. I can’t think clearly. Every day feels like a battle with my own mind, and I’m losing more often than I’d like to admit.

The Worry Loop

Worry, worry, worry. That’s all it is. From the moment I open my eyes, my head spins with “what ifs.” What if I can’t hit my 250 kilometers this month? What if I get too sick to run? What if I lose control of everything I’ve worked so hard to hold together?

It’s not just the running. It’s everything. It’s life. It’s family. It’s work. It’s the feeling that everyone else has a script and I’m off wandering on my own, reading from some lost page that doesn’t belong in this story.

I want to be happy. God, I want to be happy. But I don’t feel it. I feel like I’m alone on an island, even when I’m surrounded by people. Worse — the loneliness isn’t forced on me. I choose it. I pull away. I don’t want anyone near me because I don’t like who I am when they’re around. I don’t like how I act, how I sound, how I feel. It’s like having the right words jammed at the tip of your tongue but never able to say them out loud. Debilitating.

Running Is the Only Escape

The only thing that gives me relief is running. But even that feels like a deal with the devil. I push so hard to outrun the chaos in my head that my body can’t keep up. I’m exhausted. My legs ache. My lungs burn.

Physically, I’m starting to break down. Mentally, I’m holding on by a thread. And yet I keep going, because when I’m moving, when my feet are pounding pavement, for a few moments the noise shuts off. The worry fades into the rhythm of breath and stride.

But it’s not sustainable. I know it. I can feel it. And when the run ends, the noise comes rushing back, louder than before.

The Pills and the System

Nights are no better. My doctor prescribed me sleeping pills, and here’s the truth: if I don’t take them, I wake up drenched in sweat. Not just a little sweat. The kind where the sheets are soaked through, my hair dripping, my body shivering because I’ve lost every ounce of comfort in my sleep.

So I take the pills. Every night. And I get it — doctors don’t want to hand out prescriptions like candy. I respect that. But here’s the problem: getting a doctor’s appointment in New Brunswick is a joke. You call today? You’re waiting three to six weeks before you even sit across from him.

And when I finally get in the room, what happens? He asks how I’m doing, I tell him, and he refuses to explore anything new because I said I don’t want antidepressants. I’m not depressed. At least not in the way they define it. I think it’s anxiety. I think it’s ADHD. I think it’s something else. I want him to use that expensive PhD hanging on the wall to actually diagnose me. But he doesn’t. He just tells me, “keep taking the pill.”

Except when the prescription runs out, and I’m stuck waiting weeks for a refill. Now I’m back at square one, sweating through my nights, restless, anxious, and losing my grip.

The Bigger Problem

And here’s the kicker: I’m not alone. This isn’t just me. This is hundreds, thousands of people in this province, across this country. People who are struggling, who are desperate for help, but who can’t get it because the system is broken.

Public health here is a disaster. Tax dollars vanish and patients wait. Mental health gets swept under the rug. People slip through the cracks.

And when they slip? They don’t land softly. They land on the streets. They land in addiction. They land in that dark place where the only relief is whatever drug they can score to shut off the noise for a few hours.

I’m terrified of becoming one of them. Another lost statistic. Another name no one remembers, just another story whispered about “what could have been.”

Searching for Something More

I’ve been looking for something else. Something beyond running, beyond pills, beyond waiting for a broken system to decide I matter enough to help. I’ve looked in books, podcasts, meditation apps, you name it. But nothing sticks. Nothing pulls me out of this constant storm.

And it’s exhausting. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. I feel like I want to scream and cry and laugh all at once. Every emotion surges through me at the same time. There’s no middle ground. No calm. Just chaos.

Why I’m Writing This

I’m writing this because maybe someone out there feels the same way. Maybe you’re sitting there, scrolling through your phone, wondering why you can’t get your shit together when everyone else seems fine.

You’re not alone.

I feel it too. Every fucking day.

And maybe by putting this out there, by admitting it, by saying the words out loud instead of keeping them stuck at the tip of my tongue, I can take some of the weight off. Maybe you can too.

What Comes Next

I don’t have a perfect ending for this post. There’s no neat bow to tie it up. This isn’t a story where I tell you I discovered some magic solution.

Right now, my solution is running. Right now, it’s those little white pills that keep me from drowning in sweat every night. Right now, it’s stringing together days, one after another, without completely falling apart.

But I know this isn’t enough. I know I need more. I need to keep searching. I need to find healthier ways to quiet the storm.

And maybe that’s what this whole journey is: not about finding the cure, but about refusing to give up the search. Refusing to let the noise win. Refusing to become a statistic.

Closing Thought

So if you’re out there, if you’re fighting the same fight, if your brain feels like a prison and your chest feels like a pit, hear me out: you’re not crazy. You’re not broken. You’re not alone.

We’re in this together. And as much as it feels like we’re all running separate races, maybe — just maybe — we’re all heading toward the same finish line: peace.