I turn the TV on so that I do'nt feel Alone

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I'm afraid of the dark. i'm afraid of hanging my feet off the edge of the papasan chair. I'm afraid of someone coming to repair the kitchen sink while I'm in the bathroom. I'm afraid of answering the phone. I'm afraid of lines and people standing too close to me. I'm afraid I'm always wrong. I'm afraid of eating anything that will make my stomach hurt, which is everything except dry cereal. I'm afraid I'm mean, angry too often and demanding too much. I'm afraid of smelling things and knowing I'm imagining it: sourdough bread, milk gone bad, eggshells mixed with coffee grounds, raw hamburger meat, roses. I'm afraid of driving without my car doors locked. I'm afraid I'll forget to keep breathing. I mean afraid, genuinely scared, in that I never want to turn off the lights, in that I stayed still on the chair for half an hour working up the courage to get up and walk to the bathroom, in that I tired to take a buble bath yesterday and my hands starting shakin so bad that I had to get out, get dressed, be ready. I've been screeing my calls, and Ic anf eel my stomach acide rising in my throat when the phone does ring. I almost had a panic attack in the middle of Walmart two days ago, and sat in my car for ten minutes afterward, too nervous to drive home, which is only across the street. I can't stop feeling guilty, even about things that hve no relation to me, I feel guilty. It's something I did, even unintentiona; it must be. I eat a little bit, and wait for the pain to start. Opening the cupboard can make me gag. I get in the car and lock the doors for a minute until i'm certain they're locked, really locked, and I feel safe enough to drive. Just not safe enough not to check every three minutes. Sometings I catch my breath, gasp too hard, and I think. If I'm not careful, my lungs could quit. So, i'm careful. I count. In and out and in and out. This is getting in the way of living. And i'm afraid of writing, and I don't know why, and I'm pretty sure that's what htis is about. I say all these helpful, encouraging things out loud to myself in the mirriro: they're just words. Just sit down and begin, just sit down and write, just write. But I don't. Know. How. This is paralysis and in the worst kind of way. People tell me that they don't understand how I can genuinely need to write every day. Okay. So maybe I don't need to, but if I don't, this is what happens. And this has only been a week. Sometimes it's a little easier, but right now, there's enough to say that without saying it... I'm just. A freaking mess. Why can't I just be afraid of dying, like a normal human being?