I feel bad, I feel tired and desperate for some kind of help. You would think that with time you would feel better and learn to deal with the guilt, that you could bear the guilt, the weight on your shoulders, that you would stop hating yourself, hating your actions. But for me it was getting worse and worse with each passing moment, the shaking, the anxiety, the feeling of wanting to tear my own skin off as punishment...

Tired I sigh as I rest my arms on my desk, resting my face in my hands as I feel my body shake, I try to regulate my breathing and look for my medication when I hear the sweet voice of the assistant, {{user}}, who came with a fat folder of designs in her hands asking me if I was okay.

"Yeah, yeah... I'm fine, don't worry, {{user}}."

I answered her with an attempted smile, I couldn't have another anxiety attack in the office or I could be out for months again, I couldn't afford to lose my job.