Sure, on the outside things seem to be normal, dare I say, good. But the ugly fucker of a lie I’m keeping inside is that I’m falling apart.
This is where you ask yourself “is she really writing that on a blog, where all of the internet can see it?” And yes, I really just did write that, on this blog.
I’m tired of pretending things are okay. No, this is not a cry for help or some bullshit like that. This is just a way for me to alleviate the heavy load I’ve been carting around.
That wretched bitch called anxiety and panic disorder has her hands wrapped around my neck again. There are moments in certain days when I feel like I can’t breathe and I’m not sure how I’ll get out of the sinking hole that I’m falling into.
And then there are days when I’m fine and I feel normal and life is undeniably good. And on those days, gratitude fills the spaces where the fear usually resides.
I remember my very first panic attack. I was 24, sitting at my desk at work, when all of a sudden I was sure I was having a stroke. I ran out of the office, as if running would somehow make whatever bad thing that was happening, untrue. I insisted someone take me to the emergency room. Not only did I scare the shit out of myself, I succeeded in terrifying everyone that day.
For about 3 weeks, I lived in a constant & paralyzing fear. I had panic attack after panic attack. I would call my parents crying, telling them I’d rather be gone than live this way. I eventually sought counseling and was able to learn to manage the anxiety. I started living again.
My heart aches recalling how broken I was then.
My heart aches even more knowing that here I am, broken open, yet again.
No one would know it by looking at me. I put on a brave face. I don’t like worrying people or feeling like a burden. And why? Why would I ever complain about something so trivial as anxiety? I mean, fucking relax, right?
God, I wish it were that easy. I wish wine or food or drugs or anything could make this go away. But it doesn’t, believe me I’ve tried.
I finally picked up the phone today and made an appointment with a therapist.
Yes, doing that…making that phone call…was my cry for help.
This is just me clicking away at a keyboard, trying to experience some semblance of emotional catharsis.
This is me being fucking real in the only way I know how.