Last night was bad. My eyes feel heavy and the strain of staring into the computer screen adds to the nagging headache I currently possess. It seems like a strange time to sit down and try to pluck the thoughts rummaging around in my head and place them into a word document, but it’s times like this that I need it most. Writing helps me compartmentalize the chaos in my brain, to organize the things that keep me up at night. A release of the thoughts that are gnawing on my insides. Just like they were last night, and a thousand nights before that.
I think the little things are what got me yesterday. Someone’s critical comment on Facebook, a check engine light on my truck, nagging feelings of incompetence. Miniscule things building one upon the other, over and over, feeding the anxiety monster inside of me. Fueling him for his next attack.
We’ve been getting along pretty well lately, the anxiety monster and I. In fact, for the past couple months I would describe him as more of mildly misbehaved pet than a monster. We’d have our brief disagreements, but for the most part we were working together at keeping each other balanced. I guess that’s why last night was so hard on me.
When I have anxiety attacks every day, they are almost easier to manage than when I only have them every now and then. When the feeling of impending doom is a constant, it’s easier for me to cope because I know that I’m not actually going to die, I just feel that I am. But after a couple months of minimal anxiety, a sudden attack catches me off guard. Am I dying for real this time? I just don’t know, and suddenly I’m spiraling more and more into full blown panic. It begins with a mild irritation, like an itch I can’t scratch. My thoughts begin to race, a frenzy of words that feed my deepest fears. My heart starts to pound. I can’t sit still, hyperventilation sets in. I grasp for my coping skills, but they seem so out of reach. A wall of fear shields them from my view. But that’s not the worst part.
As I look over at my husband, so desperately trying to calm me, a familiar sting settles in at the core of my panic. The foundation of the unrest found within me, shame. It mercilessly consumes me. “He’d be better off without you.” Shame whispers in my ear. “It’s nearly midnight and he has work tomorrow. You’re so pathetic for keeping him awake.” I cover my ears and rock back and forth, trying to make it stop. “One day he’ll realize what a mistake he made when he married you, worthless cow.” Over and over I take the blows shame deals me, allowing them sink in and become part of me because I think I deserve it. Shame and I dance to this toxic melody hand in hand until sleep finally tears us apart.
It’s morning now and the dance is over. I’m still recovering from my late-night battle, but the sensible part of me has mostly returned, ready to mend the wounds sustained from the midnight frenzy. Logic and reason become my bandages. I’m not dying, I’m not worthless, my husband loves me more than anything in the world. I’ll cling to these truths, allowing them to take place inside of me until once again shame and I find each other, because we always do.
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