This morning I went from being in a dead sleep to a horrible panic attack. I am leaving next week. Next week. On Wednesday. Alone. By myself. On an airplane. Across the ocean. THE OCEAN!
Will there be FedEx packages with useful items when my plane goes down? What if my foot gets caught in the yellow strap and I’m not as coordinated as Tom Hanks, I had a dentist appointment, thank God! I don’t wanna knock my tooth out with an ice skate. Oh fuck. I’m allergic to coconut. I really am. What if…what if…my wig flips off mid flight…what if….
Anxieties and panic attack’s are truly making yourself suffer repeatedly instead of just once. It’s ridiculously silly. Why am I so silly?
After an hour I’ve managed to calm myself down. I really am excited, who wouldn’t be? Not everyone gets to jaunt off to Ireland for 15 days, not everyone has a supportive spouse who encourages them to walk tall, to see the world, to be strong. I am so so blessed. But…
Over the years I have asked myself if it’s time. Is it time to admit I can’t do this without medication? No. I refuse to believe that my brain can’t fight this on it’s own, I understand that there are people who have benefited immensely from medication. I know myself, if there’s something I can get addicted to I will. With my family history, I can’t take that chance. I won’t.
So here I am. And now I’ve left my anxiety here, on this page. It’s helping. Heart rate, normal. Palms not sweating (mom’s spaghetti). Breathing normal. Grateful.