Captain’s Log: Stardate 08192019

My brain had a panic attack — the Send ALL the Adrenaline kind — while I slept last night. It woke me. Right around 1:30 in the morning, I woke up gripped with the fear/certainty that I was literally dying. When I was 19, I liked eating acid in the middle of the night when I was falling asleep so that I would be forced awake by the trip’s peak. In those seconds that you go from unaware to aware, I would also go from sober to blazed out of my mind on LSD. Having a panic attack in your sleep is like a terrible version of that.

I’m pretty good at telling myself it’s just an anxiety attack and getting through it these days. None of the physical discomfort disappears just because I understand what’s happening, but it makes it less awful if I can keep one little toe from one foot on the ground, so to speak. I still shake. I still sweat or shiver and feel every twinge in my body like the vibration of a death knell, but I have tricks now.

I tell myself things like, “It’s not a heart attack, because you’d be dead already because this has been going on for 20 minutes.” Or, “Stomach pains do not mean you’re full of cancer and about to expire.” And that helps. I call people and ask them to distract me. I take baths, stretch, move my body. Sometimes I just let myself freak out and cry; the only way out is through.

Last night I phoned a friend and popped a Xanax. I don’t like taking them, but I feel like I have as healthy of a relationship with alprazolam as is possible for someone like me. On the rare occasion that I do dissolve one under my tongue, I’m grateful I can.

Today my directive to myself is to listen to my brain and my body. They’re both very, very tired. And I’m more prone to things like blitzkrieg panic attacks when I’m this exhausted.

Tonight, while Facebook scrolling, I noticed a friend who works in restorative justice posted something on her page that listed out the things every month should contain: a lunch date with a friend, a movie night, a day outdoors, a breakfast meetup, a date with your kids, a day to yourself — you get the point.

Truthfully, my first thoughts were: Go fuck yourself with that. A movie night? A lunch date? A DAY TO MYSELF? What kind of privileged-ass… and then I stopped myself, because she’s not privileged. She’s damaged. Beat. The. Fuck. Up by this life. And busy too, just like I am. So I shut it down. She probably doesn’t get to do half of those things in a month either, but the message is valid. Take care of you.

Later on, a close friend messaged to check on me. She said she attended a restorative yoga class tonight and then wrote, “I will go again.”

So my mind is on restoration. Restorative things. Rest. And I’m thinking about friends. The one who posted the list that made my tired, crabby self talk like a belligerent 15-year-old in my head. The one who checked on me and told me about something healthy she did for herself. The one who took my son and me to dinner tonight after I got off work. And the one who answered last night when I was afraid I was about to die.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. I mean, no. I’m calling you in the middle of the night while you’re on vacation. I’m not okay. But I know I’m okay.”

Then he distracted me and my meds kicked in.

People take care of me all the time, and I try to give it back and take care of them when they want or need it, but the song The Universe is singing to me says that self-reliance, self-soothing, and self-awareness are what I need the most.

Onward and upward, loves. Tomorrow holds another try at everything.

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To the Grind

Some days, all I have for the world is, Well, I’m not going to commit suicide today. That’s what I can do. And then I treat myself like I’m very incompetent and get through the day.
Welcome to today, tribal loves. My head is a jumble, a mean mine field detonating in chorus. In an hour I’m supposed to be at work where I haven’t been all week, because I’ve been feverish with a more feverish child to care for. Parents have dropped off Gatorade and Ramen at the door (no Plague for them), peanut butter and milk once we were past the hump of the virus. I have hardly seen any humans other than my sick kiddo and his dad on Monday. And my therapist.
I thought therapy was great yesterday, then I realized that I tricked my therapist into believing the dramatic love-shit coming off my tongue was the most important thing I could talk about yesterday in her office.
Here is the light inside, and I have to touch it now or I won’t make it today:
I know that when I get there, it’s going to be all right. I know that communing is what I do, and it’s Friday. We’ll play music in the cathedral on the jukebox, later on the stage. I will be as gentle with myself and others today as I need them to be with me, and we’re all going to wake up tomorrow.

12/6/18

Grace is waking up as late as your dizzy, dizzy head needs to and knowing that a stream of angels will pass through today, that your bar manager is getting your day covered for tomorrow so you can move out of your apartment on time. It’s relocating your three customers on yesterday’s shift (favorites all–trusted–five years ago you lied and said you were a niece to one [you and another bartender who has resurfaced too] so you could visit him in the ER after he fell off his bar stool) to the far side of the bar so you could share the small space heater on the counter away from the doors. Love is when one sunbeam fought through the awful December sky and landed all over you and you caught one of them seeing you bask in it without any objectification fucking up the warmth.
 
This is what it looks like when your circle knows you’re tired. They carry you.
 
Your mother packed your boxes while you practiced the tease with Old Man _____ at the bar. Sometimes you held his hands on the counter. He’s a kind old man who hugs you and tells you to be careful when he leaves always. He’s the one who fell all those years ago. This, too, is love and grace.
 
You spent as much in the jukebox as you made in tips, but you made it through and home. That’s what counts on those days.
 
Today is different. Better and just starting. I could die this afternoon, but I probably won’t. The fact that I can even type that out means I’m wandering out into thinner trees. My Tribe will come like they said they would, and somehow this will get done.

Journal 11/20/18

I can’t slow it down. What if I just start typing it all? The whole river that’s coming through my head. Word after word after word–there’s no way to do it. The moment I start making sentences, organization begins. All those words, all those feelings I’ve learned to associate with sound conventions designed to transmit meaning to others and create a sense of communion–that’s why I write. It helps me.

Sometimes I talk about Writer Brain. If I never see another word of mine published, I still have it. The way I’m wired, I need it all to connect on paper, because I spend most of my time feeling out of order. Whatever diamond thread stitches 1995 to 2018, right now to last week, I struggle to find it on my own. I grasp at it running through stories, the narrative I construct in order to keep going in “the right” direction.

I’ve learned to live by the cardinal points. Am I going north or south? Up or down, and which way do I want to go? The devil is forever in the details, so sometimes I keep it vague. Other times I lay out an intricate plan so Satan and I can rendezvous and have a snog (I would like to steal this slang from the Brits–sometimes it’s just the word). And then I set things on fire.

I’ve junior high-daydreamed several versions of a Why I Write (that thing, that personal essay requested by an editor, that I learned as an undergrad to associate with Making It As A Writer), and I even have one pretentious stab at it on a story that a flash fiction site published (it was my way of trying to explain why I’d stayed with my daughter’s father after I realized his transgender thing wasn’t a thing, she was she and that was that–I should have gone immediately out of kindness to us all, but I stayed and let falseness mark our lives. I contorted myself and swung from one flaming treetop to another and pretended it was all right. I went nose-to-nose with strangers in stores who harassed my partner, then I hate-fucked them at parties weeks later). It’s not necessarily false, what I wrote, but I tried to make it slick and palatable.

Today the words are a stream in my head, but they’re slowing down. I’m technically on vacation; all of my children are with their fathers. I’m using this time to study the map. I’m using it to reconnect. Right now, everything feels shattered.