Another Day, Another Panic Attack (Beware Rantphanie)

Here goes. This one should be fun.

These Panic Attacks are increasing in regularity. I thought…I thought they were Anxiety Attacks. And I think that’s all they used to be. But something is wrong, because I know the difference well. And I’m having full-on panic attacks now. Is it a med? I’ve reduced how many I’m on. It is circumstantial? That’s no doubt a contributing factor. Is it something age-triggered? Perhaps. I rule nothing out at this point. Nothing except the fucking anti-psychotics the bitch keeps trying to push.

They’re getting worse. Picture me lying dead still in bed until it explodes. And then I experience everything I described before plus a lot of hair pulling, gnashing of teeth, rage screaming. Lately these “episodes” have landed me in the closet. It’s like a safe, cozy spot of dark. It’s a small closet, and the walls are close. I drag my pretty paisley lap blanket in, along with a pillow and my phone (just in case).

I curl up into the corner, zip my hoodie all the way up, pull the hood down as low as it will go, cover myself in the soft, indulgent blanket. Then I close my eyes, lean my head into the corner, and pet the blanket.

lg_clean20out20your20closet
Only darker and far less clutter.

I’ve been asked by more than one person why I do this.

What’s wrong with you?

Why didn’t you reach out to me?

Why didn’t you think to ask for help before you vomited the contents of your broken soul into the wastebasket?

What did I do to deserve you feeling suicidal?

Am I not enough for you?

Why are you doing this to me?

Are you doing this for attention?

Why don’t you just fucking stop it?

Just be happy, for fucks sake.

You were fine five fucking minutes ago!

You must just not trust me. That’s what this is about. Admit it. So how can I trust you?

Let’s just get this said for the record: This isn’t about you, you raging fucking narcissist.

If you could get your head out of your ass for five fucking seconds, you’d understand that something this severe isn’t simply snapped out of. And it’s been part of my life for years. So fuck off trying to make this about you. Not everything is about you. Do you get that? No. Because you’re blinded by the dark interior of your ASSHOLE.

If you think I wouldn’t snap out of it if I could, you’re a fucking idiot to boot. No, you’re right. You know what? You’re right. I LOVE feeling a panic attack coming on, trying to brace myself and ride it out AT WORK, only to have to make a calm but anxious dash to the bathroom so I can shake and sweat and silently rage until I vomit. Yes. Yes. I love it so much. I want to fuck it six ways to Sunday.

If you think I use this as some twisted form of manipulation, then you know absolutely nothing about me at all. And seriously, manipulating you into piling on the guilt? Oh yes, yes, please sir. I’ll have another HEAPING FUCKING HELPING OF GUILT, YOU PRICKWHISTLE.

If  you think I’m doing this for attention, you should know…attention is the last thing I want right in the middle of a panic attack. I’d love to have someone around. To just be present. Maybe even sit in the closet with me. Quietly. Maybe be there to hold my hand when I finally calm down enough to make eye contact. Maybe someone to tell me to stop apologizing for all the tears and snot.

Yeah, that would be nice.

That would be  bliss.

Your guilt trips? You know what they do? They make them worse. So take them and shove them back up your crusty pisshole.

Second point I’d like to make is that I’m trying. I’m fighting. I am intellectually well aware that my psychological responses are off.

I’m well and truly aware that it is an understatement to say it’s abnormal to get home from work, check the mail, find a notice that I’m receiving my last issue of “Backpacker,” so you’d better renew your subscription now so you don’t miss out!, get inside, put my things down, and have a complete and utter meltdown.

Do I even need Backpacker anymore?

They’re gonna put rods and pins in my feet. Can I hike like that?

I can’t afford the 20 fucking dollars a year for a stupid fucking magazine.

You have bills to pay that are more important than articles on shit you can’t even do without breaking your bones, fatass.

Look at all this waste you accumulate.

Final notice for Backpacker! Final notice for The Sun! Final notice for Mother Jones!

Final fucking notice for you, motherfucker! FINAL FUCKING NOTICE FOR ME!

Why do I bother?

I wouldn’t even need to live vicariously through Backpacker, if I could at least start getting some fucking interviews in PNW. But noooooo. I have a piece of shit, cracked out recruiter who can barely remember my name and not enough endorsements on my LinkedIn.

LinkedIn. Facebook. Ladders. Glassdoor. Indeed.

OVERFUCKINGWHELMED DOT COM

And I still write shit cover letters.

JUST. FUCKING. DIE. ALREADY.

Where. Where. WHERE’S MY BLANKET!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

It happens. Sometimes I can later identify a trigger; sometimes there’s no logical one to be found. Does that help, huh? Does that help you see? No, it doesn’t, because you still think I’m exaggerating. And if only I got a fucking hobby, I could quit all the meds cold turkey and be right as rain. Lemme just take one of the Oracle’s cookies while I’m at it. Bend some fucking spoons.

I don’t even give a shit if it does help you. I give a shit if it helps someone see. If it helps someone identify and better communicate with his or her suffering partner, family member or friend. I hope it helps shed light for those like me on just how intense this shit is. Look at it. Right there in black and white. And see how much it hurts not only ourselves, but our loved ones if we’re lucky enough to have any. Don’t push them away, not the ones who are genuine. There are way too many pricks out there to fill in the gaps. Cling to the keepers.

This kinda shit needs love. Patience. Endurance. Faith. Unconditional togetherness. Unity.

I am always open with my emotional and psychological struggles. If I begin a relationship, I make it plain that I am highly emotional, an empath and struggle with psychological abnormalities. I find people incredibly dismissive of it until they see it “in action,” so to speak. And then they flip and inevitably make it about themselves. Can we please, please stop this vicious cycle?

There’s more I wanted to say.

But I’m sleepy now.

And I have to pee.

For those of you suffering with me – fist bump. “Hang in there” and all that trite shit. Seriously. You aren’t alone. Even when you feel more alone than anyone else in the whole godforsaken world.

For those of you struggling to understand us – fist bump. Please don’t give up on those you love. And if you don’t really love them? Let them down easily. Gently. We break easily.

Goodnight

 

P.S. As a full disclaimer: This rant wasn’t directed at any one person. If you see yourself in it, I suggest taking a good hard look at yourself and working on some of your own struggles.

Peace out, homeslices and homeslicettes.

Not even editing. Just gonna let this bitch fly.

Rantphanie Out.

 

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