Warning: Serious and personal post… You were warned.
There are days when my mind gets to me. Days when it takes control and harasses me over and over and over and over and over and over again… It’ll go from calm to feeling like doom is immanent in about half a second. I start hyperventilating, my chest starts hurting, I get dizzy, I can’t see well, everything feels as though it’s shutting down.
And then after what feels like an eternity it stops.
When it does this, I can’t help but reflect back on what just happened. Usually, I try to come up with why it happened in the first place. I usually don’t come up with anything. Because of this, I start feeling stupid. I feel insane. I feel like a piece of trash that seriously needs to be picked up and burned (Preferably with dramatic music and a sad face on the person burning the trash…). Granted, this feeling doesn’t last forever. It’s only there between the crazies.
And then the monster comes back.
It goes on in a cycle for a long while, threatening to kill me. It makes me want to hit myself over and over again until I pass out and the torture ends. When the cycle continues on for a long while, it feels as though I need to duct tape myself to a wall to avoid hurting myself. I end up sitting in a safe corner where there isn’t anything I could grab on to. I put on headphones with calming(ish) music up loudly to try and drown out my own brain.
Eventually, the crazies slow down and I just become miserable. I know very well what’s happening, and it scares me. It scares me that it’s happening at all – because it makes me abnormal. It makes me insane. It makes me a freak.
Why am I writing this? Mainly to get it out of my head and in words somewhere. Last night I had one of these panic attacks go on for six or seven hours. Not constantly panicked but up and down from the crazy to the self hate.
Up until November or December of last year, I wouldn’t tell anyone what would happen – because I thought there was something severely wrong with me and I didn’t want anyone to know. But it began to get worse. Much worse.
I was taking a psychology class and mentioned something about it to the teacher. I didn’t actually tell her what was going on, I made a joke kind of thing about worrying about stuff. She made eye contact with me and said, “You have an anxiety disorder, girl!”
Being the hypochondriac that I am, I googled it. Everything I read on it – EVERYTHING matches. Perfectly. Both the social anxiety disorder and the general one. I told my mother, and she nodded as though she’d known forever.
The first attack I can remember was when I was seven or eight. It was over the fact that I didn’t know what kind of refrigerator I was going to get when I got married. I remember the distinct fear that the whole world was going to implode if I did not know right then and there what was going to happen. I did it a while later with the lawn mower.
There are streets I’m terrified to drive on.
Traffic terrifies me. A lot.
Not knowing exactly where I’m going terrifies me.
Not knowing where I’m going to be in the next six months terrifies me.
Talking to people who aren’t the core people in my life terrifies me.
And random crap that has nothing to do with anything terrifies me.
A few months ago it even attacked my writing. I still have been unable to recover from that. But, as writing is something I can’t do without, I constantly fight to get back through the pain to write yet again.
The fact that I know what’s going on helps tremendously. It makes me feel somewhat more normal. But when my brain takes control of itself and beats me up like a piece of trash, I’m terrified.