a glimpse into panxiety attacks

8***forgive this post, my keyboard doesn’t work right, i am not home, and this is being copied from paper because, well, you’ll see….

3/6/15 12:16 pm

The power has been out an hour. I called but so far nothing. I am so panicked I can’t discern if it’s a panic attack or some sort of stroke. woozy, dizzy,sweaty, room spinning, heart pound and one of my eyes feel ready to pop out of the socket.
suffocating. head spinning. Not even heat without electricity. I am so reliant on technology I am lost without it. I’d have died back in Little House on The prairie days.
sO I sit and chainsmoke and stare at the door, waiting for the knock. Except my sweaty palms make it icky.
just when i thought the dark depression was the worst of the day.
i try so hard to do the breathing and visualization exercises to calm myself but it’s not working.
what if my wiring is so fucked i have to move.
what if…what if…
i hate being in a holding pattern at the mercy of others, I feel so hobbled and impotent…i guess control freak is an understatement.

12.;26 pm

still no power. my eyeballs are itching and now I have all this silent time alone with my tornado of thoughts and it’s like…do i have pink eye/ is my brain getting ready to explode through my eye socket/
The noise in my head is deafening. I have no background noise to distract and dull my spinning thoughts. so that leaves me to think about every shitty thing that’s ever happened to me and how it was all my fault even if people are using assholes. it’s all still my fault because if i were mentally stable, they wouldn’t run screaming from me.

Power restored.
Now tick tock until I can go fetch my kid and be done with this petri dish shit.

dogs are barking. people are talking loudly. nerves are cannibalizing themselves.
tick tock.

this day sucks. I have a cold so I spent most of the night hacking up a lung and my spleen. I nearly choked to death this morning( no drama, I literally thought I was going to die and my only thought was noooo, i have to get my kid from school.)

The darkness that permeates my mind right now freaks me out. You can put up a hell of a fight and still end up losing.

That terrifies me.

The Good, The Bad, and The Surprising

The bad: Bex missed her flight. Courtesy of Greyhound running ninety minutes late thus making her train trek to O’Hare run late and lead to confusion and panic. (Read about it here, in her words)

She had no phone, little cash, in a huge airport filled with people who wouldn’t help and few that would or could. She managed to occasionally contact by net and collect call. For my part, I worked from my end trying to figure something out. Since no one from the airline was available to talk to her, the best I could come up with was to get her back here. Her Visa is good til the 16th, this gives us time to regroup. Got her back by train. (FUCK YOU GREYHOUND AND YOUR INEPT SERVICE!!!!) To my credit, I found the train station fine and got back home fine, not once did I get confused or lost. I’ve always been like that. Freak out over a ringing phone or knock on the door, but when the chips are down and it’s an emergency…For some reason my lizard brain takes over.
So she’s back here with us and she zonked facedown into bed within three minutes. She has earned the rest, she went through such an ordeal. And I feel shitty because I waited and waited to hear from her but at some point after three a.m., I fell asleep with the lights on. And I can’t sleep with lights on so I had to have been ninja’d with sleep. She’s going thru hell, and I got to sleep for three solid hours. I’m an asshole.
We can’t do anything today since no one with any knowledge is in at the airline counter. So today is recovery, tomorrow is recon.

I fear I may have overstepped my bounds by writing an email to Bex’s mom. I just tried to explain the ups and downs of bipolar and how amazing Becca truly is, she doesn’t make bad choices and act impulsively as a norm, nor is she lazy or unwilling to try to fight the mental stuff. Her family seems to think it’s character weakness and I just felt…compelled to try to explain it’s not, at least not entirely. Really hope I didn’t make the situation worse. Oh, well, won’t be the first time I colored outside the lines and got told to mind my own business.

So…The good…is at least she’s out of that cesspool that is Chicago, safely ensconced in the safe zone here. Not a clue where to go from here, but she’s safe and resting. That is good.

The surprising…I reached out to both R and my dad for help getting her back since she and I didn’t really tuck money back for this contingency. We booked the bus so she arrived FIVE HOURS before her flight. That was ample time. We calculated what American currency she’d need since the plan was straight from bus, to train, to flight. So she’s stranded up there and panicking and I’m back here and panicking.

And I called R, since he’s the only one with a credit card, and he actually bought her train ticket back, not a single hesitation. Then I called my dad and explained the situation…And he drove into town today to put gas into the car (since I burned it all out yesterday getting lost).
I was surprised. It turns out, I do have real friends and half decent family who are there for me in a pinch. I need to remember this when prattling on about their shortcomings. They came through when they could have easily said, “You and Becca are grown women, you should have planned for this, you’re on your own.” But they didn’t. And I’m still a little stunned.

Life is full of surprises, good and bad.

For now…all is calm, we are all safe, and the rest..will get sorted out somehow. Just not today.

BTW…GREYHOUND SERVICE IS ATROCIOUS AND I WANT MY MONEY BACK FOR THE TICKET FOR BEX’S TRAUMA AND MISSED FLIGHT!!!!! Last time I took Greyhound (my wallet was stolen) the bus had mechanical issues so they dispatched another bus to ensure the schedule wasn’t thrown off by more than a half hour. I don’t know why they fucked up so badly this time. Like they knew this was crucial. Like the fates knew it was critical and wanted to troll us.

Becca made constant jokes about missing her bus and flight and now she thinks I believe she did it on purpose. I damn well know better. I heard the panic in her voice when she kept calling, I felt it in my bones. I know this wasn’t her doing.

I blame Greyhound. Shit happens, but this was beyond the pale of poor service. I hope they get rabies and have to be put down.

Smothered

I had a panic attack when I dropped my kid off at school today. Came from out of nowhere, no trigger, just standing there in a parking lot and WHAM! Pounding heart, dizziness, hyperventilation…

Of course, by now, I am a PROFESSIONAL at internalizing anxiety 98% of the time, so unless someone is actually studying me, they have no clue that I am experiencing a level of anxiety and disorientation one would get if they were in the woods being chased by a chainsaw wielding psychopath. I cover my mouth and breathe deeply in and out, rather than use a paper bag. I hug my sides in an effort to have a sense of control over something. I dig my nails into my palms, in hopes a mild jab of pain will distract me from the panic.

Sometimes it does. Most of the time it does not.

It passes. Generally with no one the wiser, unless it’s a massive attack, one where I have to lean over and hang my head and press my palms into my knees. Those are always fun. NOT.

I used to have spectator sport panic attacks. Sweating, hyperventilation, dizziness, vomiting. By the time my last three dimensional friend told me that going out with me was embarrassing and awkward, I began the descent into internalization. It saves me embarrassment but it’s a disservice otherwise because no one believes what they can’t see. If you’re acting a little squirelly but otherwise ok…They don’t see it as any big deal.

It is a big deal. Especially when you find yourself having multiple attacks a day. This internalization has sent me to the doctor more times than I care to admit. I literally make myself physically ill by turning it all inward. I trained myself so well, though, so I wouldn’t embarrass people I was with, that now I don’t know how to externalize.

And it’s all leading to me feeling smothered. By my overly demanding kid, by household disrepair, by money problems, by EVERYTHING. I have less than  zero desire to be near anyone right now. I accept my kid as my siamese twin, but others…Unless you’re at the end of a computer, I simply don’t want company. It’s the seasonal affect,to some extent, but it’s also the fact that this year has sucked for me and I have had four of the most stressful months of my life with the neighbor kids. (The landlord actually asked me if they were all mine! That’s how often they are there,ffs.)

I

feel

smothered.

I need some time to breathe.

Provided the hyperventilating panic attacks will allow it.

Deviation is beyond evil

I suppose it will seem asinine.

But to someone with my issues, it is a huge deal and it has me in a “deer in the headlights” state.

When I went to pick up my kid from school, the teacher actually refused to let her come to me like she has every other pick up for two weeks…The teacher walked her right over to me. Babbling about the color of the day for tomorrow.

At the time I thought it odd but just wanted out of all the traffic confusion and people chaos.

Now, as time has passed, scumbag brain has sent a multitude of panic attacks my way. WHAT DOES IT MEAN THAT SHE DEVIATED? hAS MY KId told some lie ab out how mean I am because I won’t let her juggle chainsaws?

What does it mean?

I am scared of my own kid because she lies.

Scared of the system because I have seen it not work as far as parents are concerned.

And I am scared of any deviation because the norm is boring but at least it doesn’t dropkick me into panic zone.

I’d rather have a gaping wound than  panic attacks. They can give you pain killers. There is nothing for the panic and all that comes with it.

Maybe it makes me a bad mom.

Scared.

Stupid.

FUCK.

Dear Bipolar Disorder and Panic Disorder: I hate you

Dear Bipolar Disorder:

You are a beast of burden. You have wreaked havoc on every aspect of my life for as long as I can remember. You have caused me to be saddled with a reputation as being “moody”, as if this is my personality, not your nifty little machinations yanking me this way and that way. Your presence nullifies in the eyes of others any good that might be within me because they simply cannot handle the roller coaster ride that comes with you. I can barely handle it myself and I wish I could have the part of my brain where you reside yanked out, doused in gasoline, burned in a fire, and have the ashes exorcised and buried. You are vile, you are evil, and you can be crippling. You are a sadist disguised as a mild mood imbalance, the depths of your cruelty most will never know. YOU are the one who has caused me to laugh at the funeral of a loved one, yet cry when my life was going perfectly well. You distort my thinking, taint my perception, and make me exist in a constant state of uncertainty and insecurity. You fill me with self doubt to the point I don’t trust myself most of the time.

You are always there when I meet new people, inspiring me to be manic and high and happy. By the time they get to know me, you throw me a curve ball and send me cascading down the waterfall of the mood spectrum into the black murky abyss of depression. At which point the people who found me so attractive and a pleasure to be around run for the hills, claiming I somehow mislead them or was simply too much of a downer to be around. You allow me stability long enough to pursue relationships…Only to reemerge and rear your ugly head once things are under way and once again, I am on the side of being accused of presenting one face yet having another. No matter how honest I am with people about my condition, you always manage to amp your game up even more to the point that stability is a joke and the roller coaster ride from hell with the joker at the helm is underway.

The doctors call you “mild”, Bipolar Disorder 2. Oh how wrong they are. You are the Marquis de Dade of mental illness, so twisted, so cruel, so hell bent on my destruction for your own personal satisfaction. You respond to medications for brief periods of time, giving the illusion of being stabilized, like I might finally be able to get on with my life…And like clockwork, you just quit responding to the meds and the medi go round starts up all over again. Doctors think I am some sort of pill seeking hound. But what I am is desperate, desperate to beat you into submission with the right drug cocktail. I want my life back. But thanks to you, it’s never really been my life. It’s been the bits of life I can manage to built around your temperamental stable periods.

I will own my idiotic choices. I will own my bad behaviors. But I will steadfastedly til my death maintain that much of it came from your influence, always sending the wrong impulses at the wrong times. Otherwise, I would be an erratic jerk ALL the time rather than just when you pop up and yell BOO at random intervals like some demented Stephen King-esque jack in the box from hell. YOU, bipolar disorder, are the bane of my existence.

And not to forget you, Panic Disorder, my constant companion since I was 8 years old. I still remember the summer I spent believing I had a bee living in my brain and having heart palpitations and panic attacks in spite of all the assurance from adults and doctors that there was no bee in my head. You alert me to danger when there is none. You paint a landscape of terror and fear when there is only everyday normal life and situations faced by every other person on the planet. They recognize the banality of the situations. Not me. Thanks to you, panic disorder, I see every little thing as a threat and my body goes into fight or flight mode. Heavy traffic? Heart rate must sky rocket, head must spin, palms must sweat, extremities must tremble….Same for first dates. To the point of puking over the side of a boat on one such stellar outing. You make me afraid to go to malls, to sit down and eat in restaurants. People surprise me and I jump ten feet in the error as if they are wearing hockey masks and armed with machetes. You tell me I have a timebomb of diseases ticking away inside of me when I do not. You tell me the new neighbors are the disciples of satan when they are not. You alert me to every possible landmine without even adding they’ve been disarmed or are no threat.

You, my dear panic disorder, are an asshole.

Yet…it is said that we are all created from that which we have experienced. And I suppose you, my mental disorders, are largely responsible for me being kind to people who are misunderstood or have other disabilities. You are why I have empathy and you are why I have learned to be cautious and to be self aware and know that I am not my disorders and I am not entirely without worth. You make me question these things I know, but ultimately, it is your very presence that convinces me that the compassionate understanding side of me is the real deal.

You make my life miserable.

Yet I am not without gratitude.

For a short time last night, you granted me a respite.

I sat here on my couch, watching a show, with five adorable kittens purring 0n my lap and my sleeping daughter curled up on my side…And if only for those brief moments…I knew what true happiness and contentment were. For this I am thankful.

But I still hate both of you and hope you die in a fire.

🙂

How Am I?

I hate when people ask how I am. I know it’s a societal nicety and utterly insincere and obligatory. I still hate it. I hate even when people are sincere. Because if I tell the truth even 20% of the time, I am going to harsh someone’s mellow by not being okay.

And while I have had a couple of neutral mood days…

My anxiety and irritability and panic have me ready to drink bleach.

I even threatened to snap someone’s neck today, I got so annoyed and flustered. I usually only say such things in jest. Today, I was so freaked out and angry, I scared myself that I could sound so hateful.

I do not like this current state I am in.

I’m taking bets on the shrink blaming the Cymbalta rather than face her own bias against a perfectly viable medication in favor of the worthless tic-tac-o-pin. It’s ok. I’m gonna tell if she doesn’t give my xanax back, I’m gonna start drinking. Constantly. Heavily. Not a threat. Just saying. One day, I may threaten to snap the neck of someone who is vindictive and has me arrested for death threat related shit.

That is not cool with me.

To end…Something Mark sent me that made me think OMG SOMEONE CREATED SOMETHING SPECIFICALLY FOR ME!

Fever pitch

We’re in the middle of a snowstorm from hell, with more coming along with freezing rain. It was zero visibility today and driving in it nearly gave me a nervous breakdown.

Now R has called and assumed I am going to drop everything to come in tomorrow, risking my kid’s life on the hazardous roads, for no money, just because…

My anxiety level is so high, I want to burn myself with cigarettes just to distract from what a nervous wreck I am. It sounds psychotic, I know, but it used to be a method of escape for me. Inflicting little wounds on myself to distract from whatever mental torment I was experiencing. That was eight years ago, though. I saw it was destructive and a little sick. But it doesn’t mean the thoughts don’t still occur. It’s hard to multi task mental pain and physical pain. The physical would drown out the mental.

But alas, I have done away with such crutches and burned them in the fire of my past.

So I fret and chain smoke and get stomach aches from the stress of the demands placed on me by others.

Earlier this week, during a semi manic swing, I was invited to R and his wife’s house Friday for pizza and Dr Who. Since my mood was up at that time and I had turned down three invites prior, I agreed.

Now my mood has shifted downward and while I will keep my word, road conditions permitting, I don’t want to go. Frankly, his wife and I have nothing in common and hanging out with her present is rather uncomfortable. Then they get to bickering if he doesn’t answer to her every whim…Kinda like walking on shards of glass and calling it a good time. LIE.

Why can’t my mood ever just stay consistent?

Why can’t I just rip my central nervous system out so I can’t be NERV-ous.

Why why why.