Or something like that.
It's funny when someone tells me that they were "on the verge of a panic attack" in regard to something they have experienced when I know full well they have no idea where that precipice actually lies. It somewhat pains me to have to throw my head back and let out a chuckle at their dramatic rendition of the time they forgot to add theeeee key ingredient into a dish they were making for Thanksgiving, and they were "on the verge of a panic attack" in thinking that they weren't going to get to the store in time when they realized that the store was actually open later for the holiday season. But I respond that way because I know they are simply using verbage to make their story somewhat entertaining. They aren't doing it to spite me, egg me on, make fun of me or anything of that sort. They are simply telling a story.
But I know what it's like to be on the verge of a panic attack all too well, which usually shocks some people. My pride doesn't appreciate the fact that at one point in my life I was so broken that my mind would actually dissociate, or disengage, to protect me if I ever sensed any danger. Yet, that's what happened. It took a long time to be able to bounce back from that, and even now, I'm still not where I was before. I doubt I ever will be.
Last night, I cut the last of James' baby hairs off the top of his head. His hair grew in weird so that he had more hair in the back and on the sides than at the top. So although I've cut his hair three times, before last night, I had never cut the top.
That haircut sent me into a tailspin. At first, I was gung-ho about cutting his hair. His little curly locks were getting so long and with summer coming to an end, I knew those curls would only last as long as the humidity did, which isn't for too much longer. So I gave him four freezie-pops and told him to sit out on the deck in his chair so I could cut his hair. He was all for it.
I started with the sides and worked my way back. And then I cut the top. I was sad, and by that point, James was through all four freezies and I was getting tired, so it was a quick snip-snip here and there and it was over.
Panic attacks sneak up on you. You can't see them coming and you have no idea they are about to occur. You only recognize them when you are in the middle of one. Then you can begin to calm yourself down.
So last night, I was jittery giving James a bath. I was jittery while nursing Catherine. I was jittery after Catherine went down for the night because she went down all too easily and I thought for sure she was going to start crying, which was going to feel like nails on a chalkboard. I couldn't sleep and kept tossing and turning. And all of a sudden I was crying.
I tried to center myself and calm myself down. I asked Eric to rub my back and I'm sure sensing something was wrong, he did. And then I just started talking.
I talked about how I cut the last of James' baby hairs off the top of his head. And that once I did, I couldn't go back. Which got me thinking about how in everything we do with him, we can't go back. We have the ability to screw up his entire life with one simple decision if we want. And it makes me sad. It makes me sad that I can't go back after those quick snips, or after the decision to put him in time-out or the decision to put him in a real bed or the decision to let him go to bed without supper if he refuses to eat what we put in front of him.
And at that moment, in talking everything through, I actually talked myself down. There was a time when i couldn't do that.
Panic attacks have grown further and further apart, and less severe with each one, but they still have the ability to squeeze me so tight that I feel like I can't breathe. What-if scenarios repeat themselves over and over, so far into my sub-conscious that I have no idea I'm even doing it.
As an exercise during counseling for my PTSD, my counselor had me write whatever was on my mind for one minute. In reading it afterward, I was shocked at how much negative self-talk there was. Almost every sentence had something that was wrong, and why it was my fault. She had my highlight all the "but if I" and "what if I" and "I should" sentences, and eventually, I wound up highlighting almost the entire thing. It was then that I realized I am my own worst enemy.
After three hours of tossing and turning, and eventually getting up to nurse Catherine, I was able to fall asleep, if only for a few hours. Luckily, I woke up less anxious, just a little sad, but thankful that I am not where I used to be. I always tell my students that the lovely thing about being you is that in whatever you do, there is always someone worse than you. So no matter how you do on something, someone out there has done much worse. However, in everything you do, there is also always someone better, so you have to strive to better yourself every day to remain a contestant against those that are better, and hopefully, you can become one of the best.
I try to make myself better every day, and working out my negativity about myself and the way I do anything is a struggle. But it's a struggle that I'm dealing with and trying to change and striving to better every day.
It's my struggle that makes me who I am. And I'm ok with that.
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