I am overwhelmed.
I say that all the time.
It's a way of removing myself from the act of articulation, from the act of resurrecting the feelings and experiences that brought the snow tumbling down off the mountain, over me.
When I am overwhelmed, I sit there and think for ages, inert. I start to think about my bed, and its quilt, which I can pull over my head, concealing me like snow. It will be dark, that world, warm with my breath. A manageable world.
To counteract the desire to say I am overwhelmed, I get up and start moving. Go for a walk. Make a nice meal. Say hi to someone. Read a book about people and places elsewhere in the world. Come out of the solipsism of my thoughts, the hypnotic power of inertia. I have to do it everyday, and most days it is easy, and other days, it is goddamn hard.