Panic Attacks

If you’re having a good day . . . do not read on as I’ll suck you into my negative force field. If you’re having a bad day . . . definitely do not read on as you’ll never find your way back to the light if you let me suck you down into my pool of negative ranting. And there’s hope for you. You can turn it all around yet. Me . . . I’m not sure.

You have been warned. Stop reading now.

Panic attacks. Used to be only a night thing. Sunday Night Anxiety, that sometimes transgressed into the week. Weren’t those the good ole days? Who knew? I don’t know how I’m supposed to go to Fredericton this weekend AND go to Sackville in two weeks time AND go to Moncton in a month. I’m sickened by this whole spring deal. Maybe something good will happen. Maybe there’s no need to panic. (Feeble attempt at optimism.)

I dreamed of Grandad and cousins and . . . Regis Philbin? Donald Trump? Chickens pecking on my head. I’m not sure about all that. A cousin was in trouble. I wonder if he is really. Sometimes I suspect he might be. I woke with a powerful urge to reach out and see. But then thought better of it. Dreams are never about the other person, always a reflection of self. I’m the one in trouble. Helping someone else might take my mind off it for a bit. Alleviate the panic attack. But that is all. I need to do something drastic like fall in love or go out west or . . . I don’t know, something to knock this funk away.

Yesterday, I felt a little better. I looked forward to a supper of salad with pumpernickle bread and butter. I haven’t been able to afford to buy food. That’s the bottom line. Last week’s junk food binge aside. I couldn’t afford it either, but in the throes of PMS these bad choices happen. Bygones. It sounds like a simple thing, salad and pumpernickle. But it’s not, Mom sent me the fixings or I’d be without. And I looked forward to it all day, even though I had no chicken wings or any meat at all to go with it. Then I went to get it ready and I noticed the salad was not the kind I normally buy. I like the field greens, this was romaine and cabbage and carrots . . . it was the carrots thing that ruined the whole experience. Carrots and my favourite raspberry dressing, do not mesh. Oh well, I soldiered on, beggars can’t be choosers and all that. And then I went to slice the bread and found that it wasn’t soft and light and fresh, but it was Best Before Sunday, expired, stale, on the way out.

And I sat at my table eating my salad and bread supper and just cried. I cried because I should be grateful I have anything on my table to eat at all, and I hate myself that I can’t just be grateful and stop wanting more. I cried because I was disappointed. I cried because I just want to be able to buy food and cook meals again and get healthy and just be normal. I’m gaining weight from this no breakfast, no water, one-meal-a-day, non-veggy, non-protein, all starchy carbs way of eating that I feel like I’m being forced to adopt. I just want my life back. And I hate myself for wanting anything. Here I am in this wonderful big apartment, with more space than ever, a gorgeous view, eagles flying by daily, sunrises happening right in front of me, with a cozy bedroom AND a spare bedroom, walking distance to everything I might want and need, surrounded by friends and family who actually come visit and spend time with me, with a bathtub for christsake . . . and I’m frigging miserable. It’s crazy for me to be like this. I am crazy. And they say money can’t buy happiness . . . well, the lack of it, sure seems like it can take happiness away.

And I know this isn’t permanent, I just need to recoup from the move. The move happened early and threw a huge wrench into my life. It was supposed to happen after all this April stuff, I was supposed to be poor in May and June and maybe July . . . but it would be sunny and hot and . . . I dunno, perhaps easier then. Perhaps not. But all this travel would’ve not been an issue had the move occurred when it was supposed to. Because I could’ve just hitched a ride to board meetings with others going, I would’ve been in town for AGM, and again I could’ve hitched rides with others going to Frye. Hardly any expense. Very little. But the move happened early. I had to finance it on my credit card. I had to pay rent on two apartments for one month. My minimum credit card payments are now very unreasonable. It’s taking every cent I have just to keep the current apartment. Just to pay the minimums. There’s nothing left over and not even really enough to do what I need to do to live.

So here I am, all moved into a place that I truly love, where all I do is cry and worry and suffer panic attacks and store fat. This is irony.

So ends today’s rant. And that’s all I’m going to say about that. Period. Next post will be brighter and more optimistic . . . even if I’m secretly planning to slit my wrists.

Mood: wrecked
Drinking: russian tea
Listening To: buddy above wandering the floor (does he work?)
Hair: i give up

One thought on “Panic Attacks

Add yours

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

A Website.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: