Last week I had a rough day. I woke up in the king-sized bed I share with my boyfriend and for the first few moments I had no idea where I was. This happens sometimes. Not frequently, but enough that I am going to bring it up to my doctors. Not knowing where you are is scary and, thus, began my seemingly endless panic attack.
I guess it was that initial sense of fear that thrust me into the mood of the day. I got up and took care of the dogs. When I popped out back to make sure the gate was shut I was afraid someone was going to shoot me. Totally irrational thought. I don’t live in the ghetto or even a dangerous area. I live in suburbia.
I took my anxiety meds and went back to bed. My bed is always my safe place. When I first moved in with my boyfriend over 3 years ago I had frequent panic attacks and I would rush off to hide in the bed covers.
I stayed in bed most of the day. Terrified. Sometimes heart pounding and breathing fast.
I couldn’t answer the phone when my best friend called because I couldn’t hold a conversation. There were only action verbs in my mind – RUN, HIDE, FLY.
Even though I was in bed, I wasn’t sleeping. I was too amped up for that nonsense. My mind just raced with horrific thoughts and fears.
At around 4:30 my boyfriend got home from work and finding me hiding beneath the sheet, he laid down with me. He did what he does best, he made me laugh. And the laughter shook loose the panic and after 15 minutes I could get up out of the bed and go downstairs and workout.
I never got comfortable that day. It felt like there was a beast inside me clawing me from the inside of my chest. I hate days like that, where I am debilitated by mental illness because sometimes they come out of nowhere. The day before was damn near perfect. The day after, I managed. But that day was a seemingly endless panic attack.
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