Keeping Secrets From Myself

I finally figured it out.  It's anxiety.  In the past three weeks, I've

burned my right arm twice on the oven
burned two fingers of my left hand, testing the heat of a grill
sprained one of my ankles
cut both of my feet
hit my lower back against a sharp-edged table

I'm a disaster.  All of these were accidents, but they form a pattern, obviously.  Whenever I'm anxious, I'm so distracted that I  go through periods of accidentally hurting myself.  For as long as I'm fearful, I'm a danger to myself.

I haven't been aware of thinking about my surgery, but clearly my mind has been focused on the pain ahead.  I'm so good at keeping secrets from myself.  It's how I got through my childhood.  I compartmentalize to keep anxiety at bay.  The Inner Fascist asserts herself and, as always, finds an abundance of qualities that need correction.

Why, why, why.  I shut down the Inner Fascist and wonder why she's back.  I wonder why I'm falling, cutting, stumbling, injuring myself repeatedly.  They defend me from what seems like unbearable anxiousness.

I'm a slow learner.  Shhhh.  Don't tell anyone, especially not me.