Friday 7th March 2014
Just had what I’m pretty sure was a mild panic attack. Clém says I should write about it, and he’s probably right.
It seems to have been triggered by Twitter, which is weird. I say this because although I’ve calmed down now, going back on Twitter made me feel a bit fluttery-hearted again. If Twitter has somehow become a trigger for me, I am going to be pissed.
So I was on Twitter, reading a Tumblr post by John Green about the amazing Swedish title of his book The Fault in Our Stars, which is about two teenage cancer patients. I haven’t read it, but given the hype and the reviews, I WANT to read it. I’ve gathered that it’s both sad and inspirational. In fact, I finally redownloaded Kindle an hour ago because of that. His Tumblr post was about the fact that the Swedes has translated the title to “Sooner or Later I’ll Explode” which is awesome. It’s worth mentioning that I’ve been spending this week in the Bad Place, between The Lake of Endless Tears and The Desert of Numb Detatchment, and today hasn’t been all that fun, but despite that I found the post slightly amusing.
I started to feel sick. Not exactly sick to my stomach, the nausea seemed to originate in my head, but I was reminded that I hadn’t eaten yet and wondered if it was that. I felt a bit dizzy, too, but not like I’d fall over – more like I was more absent than usual, suddenly. Then I felt my heart “flutter” – that’s the only way I can describe it, though it was far from romantic. It seemed to be beating faster and faster, perhaps a little erratically, and I felt the urge to breathe faster. I closed my laptop and hugged my knees.
Hugging my knees seemed to get rid of the head-nausea, but my heart was still beating really fast and I was starting to hyperventilate, so I told Clém that I needed help and he came over immediately. I remembered that in the absence of a bag to breathe into, you could put your hand over your mouth to prevent hyperventilation, and did that. Clém came and sat with me, told me I was fine and there was nothing to be afraid of, and I breathed when he told me. I cried.
He said there’s no point in wondering what triggered it, but I want to know. Surely there should be some logical trigger? If I don’t know what the trigger was, I can’t treat it. It could happen to me any time, anywhere, and how am I supposed to get a job like that? I can’t. I’m fucked.
I don’t want to have to take real meds.
I want to publish this on Facebook, but I don’t want to worry everyone. I want to tell someone, though. I need reassurance. I feel helpless and alone, like the last kid watching the teacher’s worried frown as they’re waiting for a parent to come get them, a parent who is usually never late. I just want somebody to tell me it’s going to be ok. Even if they’re a stranger. Especially if they’re a stranger. Depression relapse and now panic attacks? How far do I have to fall before I become totally useless? What if society gets used to running without me? What if I can never leave the house because I’m too ill and everyone forgets I’m there apart from Clém, to whom I’ll forever be a burden? I feel like if I get any worse, I might stop existing.