The Pace of Life

Living With Akathisia

The Pace of Life

Author’s Note

This isn’t a productivity walk; it’s psychiatric cardio. Call it anxiety, akathisia, bipolar restlessness; whatever the label, this is what it looks like from the inside. Not dangerous, not glamorous, just exhausting.

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The body knows before the mind admits— something needs to move.

Step. Step. Step.

Each one a thought I can't quite catch.

The watch counts: 3,000. 7,000. 12,000.

Numbers climbing while I circle the same rooms.

Kitchen to living room. Living room to bedroom. Bedroom to kitchen. A loop worn smooth by desperate feet.

My thoughts move faster than my legs can carry. So I pace to keep up with my own mind.

This is thinking in its purest form— movement without destination, rhythm without music, prayer without words.

Step. Step. Step.

The vape follows me like a faithful dog.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Chemical punctuation for thoughts that won't settle.

15,000 steps.

My sister calls. I answer. "Are you okay?" She hears the slight echo of constant motion. "I'm fine," I say, turning another corner.

The roommate downstairs must hear me— floorboards creaking overhead.

2AM, 3AM, 4AM.

A metronome of insomnia.

18,000 steps.

I pause at the mirror. Look at the man who can't sit still. Eyes that won't close. Feet that won't stop. A body in rebellion against its own stillness.

I know every creak in the floor. Every shadow the streetlight makes on the wall. Every sound the house settles into at night.

I am wearing paths in the carpet, in my mind, in the space between what I know and what I can't stop knowing.

20,000 steps.

The mind says sit. The will tells lie down. But something deeper says move, move, move.

As if motion could shake loose whatever's stuck in my head.

22,000 steps.

My body trying to outrun what lives inside my skull.

But thoughts travel at light speed. Feet only manage human pace.

So I pace because stopping means listening to what won't stop talking.

Step. Step. Step.

The rhythm becomes hypnotic. Almost meditative. Almost peaceful.

Almost.

25,000 steps.

The watch buzzes: "Daily goal achieved!" As if this were about fitness. About choice.

Still moving. Still thinking. Still trying to find the edge of my own restless mind.

My feet know what my head won't accept: some problems can't be solved. Only walked through. Only worn down by endless repetition.

Tomorrow: 25,000 more.

The only honest response to being trapped in yourself.

Pace.