…and a little more about me, me, me.

In the past few days, I have developed many symptoms of acute stress disorder, or as I think of it, Don’t Startle Me or I’ll Stab You With This Spatula Syndrome. These include:

• the previously mentioned exaggerated fight-or-flight reflex,
• nightmares, or,
• an inability to sleep,
• a feeling of unreality,
• constant “mini” panic attacks,*
• a new aversion to the color red,** raw meat, and closed doors,
• and most disturbingly, a recurrent image that comes up whenever my eyes close.

But never fear – my intrepid shrink is aware of what’s happening, and tomorrow I will be therapist shopping for the first time since college. I have three recommendations… oh, the flutter there will be in the local psychiatric community. Whom will she choose?

Time alone will tell.

*these include a sudden rush of adrenalin and light perspiration, which I resent strongly, being philosophically and vehemently opposed to sweating in any non-sexual context whatsoever

**and yes, I’ve changed the color of the theme, for now, but I hate all these other colors

I hate my brain

Specifically, my neurochemistry in conjunction with my sympathetic, parasympathetic, and autonomic nervous systems. Translation: I had one of the worst panic attacks in years last night, and probably because my responses are now moderated by medication, I no longer skip all the preliminaries and go straight to huddling over the toilet. Nope, now I can experience waves of irrational terror, chills, sweating, racing heart, tunnel vision, and last night, for the first time, shivering so severe I honestly thought I might be having seizures. Kind of like The Exorcist without the spinning head… The odd thing was that as the Xanax began to alleviate the initial effects, the shivering became worse; from a low-level constant shaking to distinct episodes of teeth-chattering, bed-shaking tremors.

And of course it took half an hour for me to wake up Brian and ask for help. Because more than the fear or the pain, I hate the loss of control, the helplessness. It’s a hellish thing to feel your rational mind swept over and over under washes of fear; to know exactly what’s happening, then lose your grip on that knowledge every time you forget to breathe.

But thank god for modern pharmaceuticals. They may be imperfect; our understanding may be rudimentary at best; but here I am, alive and pissed off, and that’s a victory in itself.

… eyeballing the dog’s Valium.

As someone very wise (or as I now like to say, “my friend the doctor”) said recently, the SSGC (Super Secret Girls’ Club) should really be called the SSRI. Smart, funny, successful, well-adjusted women who are living better through chemistry. And me.

Is there anyone out there whose brain wouldn’t be the better for a little extra time to absorb the neurotransmitter of happiness? If so, they’re not hanging around here.