Fighting The Giant Squid While We Tiptoe Around It On Eggshells

People who don't experience them can't understand it.

People who DO experience them don't really understand it.

They just want it to stop.

They don't want to have them.

They don't make them up to get people to pity them, or work themselves into one to get out of their every day responsibilities.

I don't have them anymore.

I think it's solely because of the medication, because this week I've been experiencing the same sense of dread.

Fear.

Fear of failure.

Fear of being lazy, or being thought of as lazy.

Maybe even fear of success, though I certainly hope not.

Fear of change.

Fear of disappointment.

Fear that maybe all the bad things that you've been led to believe about yourself might actually be true.

It's debilitating.

I kick it off like it's some sort of giant squid that has wrapped its tentacles around me.

Only it's not a physical feeling anymore, so kicking doesn't indicate that anything has actually let go.

The fear is at the back of my mind, however.

At the front rides hope and a stubborn ability to dream.

 

Anxiety Attack - A Memory:

"I woke up crying over some of the things I've been dealing with - grief and inability to set boundaries and feel safe and trust myself, for that matter -

Then I stared kind of chuckling at myself for being so melodramatic.

Then suddenly I was laughing hysterically and couldn't stop.

It's like my defense mechanism of laughing at my fears had gotten stuck.

I laughed and laughed and stopped breathing and got dizzy and then started breathing in repeated, short, quick little gasps over and over again, trying to suck in enough air and then started laughing again like a machine gun, then fell back into gasping for air and hyperventilating - kicked my legs like an underwater swimmer struggling back to the surface, running out of air...

I had been writhing around trying to curl up into a ball and squeeze myself back into shape and somehow ended up with my pillow and curtain on top of my head, so I flailed around with my arms trying to get out, pulling my face out until my cheek was resting against the edge of my bed and my blankets pulled tightly around me, feeling like I was just holding my head above water and gasping for air, trying to pretend that someone was holding me and telling me that everything was fine and I was going to be all right, but crying and breathing in and out so fast so fast so fast fast fast - and then suddenly I was in full-blown anxiety mode because the hysteria blew out and expanded, exploding into laughter and tears and terror like I really was drowning and going to die - and I was sinking down along my flannel sheets, scrabbling around with my hands as if trying to pull myself onto the shore, but I couldn't get ahold of anything and started yelling at myself out loud that it was all right, all right okay and I was fine and nothing bad was really happening and I could stop panicking any time now because it was okay I was okay and I stumbled up to my feet and into the bathroom, chuckling ironically at how I didn't really believe a single word of it but couldn't stop laughing at myself. It felt like some sick hypnotist had forced me to start laughing when there was absolutely NOTHING funny about it AT ALL, but I kept on laughing anyway because I wanted to badly to just laugh it off and move on.

Only I can't move on anymore unless I keep reaching out and getting help from people.

and that's the hardest part."

I guess it wasn't anxiety today, though - not that kind of an attack at all.

It was more like the opposite.

Or like the anxiety had sank down inside of me and curled up into a tight little ball that lay like lead in the bottom of my soul, holding me down and holding me back. It's like a dark force that stops you from being all that you are meant to be.

I couldn't do anything.

I felt so stupid.

I just couldn't even get out of bed.

I mean, if this is because of the post traumatic issues, then it is treatable. Why does it have to take so long? Why can't I just take a pill and be done with it? I work on introspection when I work on my novel - why isn't that enough?

 I have a lot on my plate and that I have to stop being so hard on myself, since anyone would be upset if they had to find a new job and pay their bills and had a garbage bag over the window of their car and antibiotics for a tooth they can't repair and didn't get the job they needed so desperately all at the same time.

Well, I say that other people have a lot more on their plates and they get it all done.

I know it's hard for them, too, but they get the job done and done well and on time.

I feel like some angst-ridden teen, and it irks me.

Last year I started noticing the PTSD symptoms over the summer because I was without a job and worried about making ends meet, worried about being homeless again.

Not everyone knows what that's like, either. All your worldly goods in a bag at your feet, hiding your valuables inside your pillowcase under your head at night so that no one can take them from you. (In my case, the cell phone my sister sent me from Utah) Shivering inside your van at night, hoping the police don't come by and kick you out of the abandoned parking lot of the old K-mart building. Wondering what you will eat tomorrow and where you will sleep and

I'm whining about this here, but really it wasn't so bad. I woke up to the sunlight every morning and read from the Bible and then made plans for what I was going to get done that day, and there was no one to tell me how to do it or why or when. It was all up to me, for the first time in my life, it seemed.

But sometimes the all up to me part of it is the opposite of reassuring.

Sometimes I get scared because it seems I made a lot of decisions in my life that turned out to be the wrong ones.

I'm older and smarter and certainly more experienced now.

I'll keep telling myself that.

I'd done a good job up until now of telling myself that I can do this a day at a time if I don't look to far ahead and try not to look back.

But it's starting to feel like a horror movie, where the protagonist is inching along the hallway and you just know that something is going to jump out in front or behind, and you just don't know exactly when.

I think when I've gotten everything done, I should go get a professional massage - I've never done that before.

My only fear is that I might start bawling the minute someone laid a finger on me.

I feel very isolated.

I try not to be.

I've been known to be in plays.

But it's very hard to find people with whom I have anything in common.

And my uncommon friends lead such busy lives.

 

This sounds all so terribly unhappy, and yet I am not.

Not entirely.

I have a supportive family and friends who care about me.

I have this beautiful day into which I can step without a jacket.

I don't have the anxiety attacks anymore - and I get up every morning and fight evil like a teacher/artist/writing superhero.

I have this insane optimistic streak that keeps me dreaming and planning and getting up every morning.

 

Yet I feel such empathy for all those who can't crawl out into the sunshine.

People tip-toe around them and I think judge them without knowing what it's like in the cave.

Makes me think of the Allegory of the Cave.

Oh, how much more we could know and understand if only we were able to turn our heads and see!