“Panic is a sudden desertion of us, and a going over to the enemy of our imagination.” ~Christian Nevell Bovee
On Martha’s Vineyard there is a popular spot called South Beach. It’s popular because of the beauty and intensity of the waves. They’re body surfing, boogie boarding, let’s ride it out, type waves. Garrett and I would drag our mother out to Edgartown, which is a hike in the way everything is a lengthy trip on vacation. Like seriously, you want me to walk to the end of the driveway? And then you use telepathy to get the mail to your doorstep. Pretty much like that.
Garrett and I would first go toe deep into the water getting used to the temperature and then we’d slowly wade in until we were ready to dare each other to dunk our entire bodies in. With a count to three we’d be in and the water would be glorious. That chill would be gone and we’d swim out a little deeper. Now here is something you should know about my mother; when she was about eight years old she went to Jones Beach with her brothers, cousins and father. While at the beach she went out too far into the waves and almost drowned. She survived – duh – and I swear to God, I could not make this up if I tried, when she got home she went bike riding and was hit by a car.
My mother almost drowned and then got hit by a car within four hours thus spending the remainder of the summer in a wheelchair with a cast on her arm and leg. And then I wonder why she doesn’t ‘feel my pain’ when I have a sinus infection. Probably because I can use both of my legs.
All of that said, she is no fan of the water. I mean she’ll go out into it but having once almost drowned she’s far more respectful of the water. Whereas Garrett and I are practically fearless and will wade out until we can no longer touch and await the waves. God, I love that rush of the waves. When you can spot them coming and start to swim back only to have them take you away. That rush of being carried and weightless. But then there are those other moments, anyone who has experienced a beach knows what I am speaking of. When the waves carry you and you’re underneath but hark! There is another one at its tail and the next thing you know as you rise up out from the surf there is another wave to knock you back over. And then again. Again. Again. Your body hitting the sandy bottom. Moments later you’re standing up looking towards the beach thinking, holy fuck, did you see that? But no one ever notices as you gasp and catch your breath while shimmying to get the sand out of those unfortunate places. Upon landing back at your towel you wonder how long you were under there for? How long did the waves have you in their grasp? It was only a few minutes you realize, but, my God, it felt like eternity.
I have been having panic attacks lately. Three in the past four days. So awful they were that they rendered me unable to fulfill my best friend duties and left me under the covers, tears in my eyes, telling myself that things would be ok. My aforementioend best friend asked me what they felt like and I told her about the waves, about not being able to get up and take a deep breath and in those few minutes of struggling for a full breath it seems as if hours go by. Later I would explain to my doctor that it was only a few minutes. In response she told me that they were probably due to ‘anticipatory anxiety’ though I just say it’s due to ‘general fucked up-ness’.
My most recent panic attack was in a parking lot next to my car. Wind was whipping and it was frigid so I wheezed my way into my car but I didn’t cry. I just teared upon the realization that to live like this was surely not living at all. I’ve spent the past several weeks under waves trying to get up. If I stay down there, I’ll drown. It’s these instances when I need someone to yell at me and tell me to stand because my feet touch. And just like that, I can breathe again.
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Catherine got me thinking today. She’s good at that though. Last Monday I had a post I was ready to write. I wanted to do my word vomit thing and get it all – the nastiness, the disturbing, the shocking – out while it was fresh in my head. I had the sentences ready to go and was quickly brought back to reality by Alana. I’d been full of haste for days and under such a spell I was ready to write it down and get it out in the open. She forced me into stopping and thinking and reevaluating that very poor decision and now I’m struggling to remember whether or not I thanked her properly.
During my first two years of blogging I distinctly remember putting out my every thought no matter how mundane or minute it needed to be read. I wanted for it to be read. Was it for attention? An ego boost? Or just the pure joy of playing with words and seeing what I could do? I was 23 so it was most likely all of the above for as you know 23 year olds can be a bit selfish as they venture into adulthood. 23 is second to 13 with the Me, Me, ME. So put it out there I did with little regard to who and what I wrote about. In my eyes it was MY story to be told as I saw fit or at least that is how it was justified to the angry masses. Over time I learned to rein that in a bit but I still fall of that wagon and put the Me before anything else. I can be selfish, we all can be but hey, at least I admit it.
The story that started to write on Monday but quickly scrapped in light of hurt is the story of my life – going back to the Me. I’m hesitant to write the next sentence because it is the epitome of my selfishness but here goes: Last Friday I decided that instead of dealing with things and my own faults and the reaction to them, that I was done. I mean done, done. Death done. I can hardly type the words out now but since we’re here I might as well. I took all of my prescribed medication in one fell swoop. I chased it with a glass of Malbec. I then laid down and watched Tropic Thunder and fell asleep. Saturday morning I woke up. Pleasantly surprised I might add. But more surprised by my reaction to the entire thing and how incredibly detached I was from the fact that the evening before I had actually tried to commit suicide. The way I quickly jotted off two texts to apologize and that was the end of that. The way I was happy I had cleaned the day before because a stretcher could make its way to my bedroom with ease and that my cat had plenty of water and food to last him to Monday. Tuesday at the absolute latest. The calmness of it all is what frightened me the most.
Monday I went to my therapist and told her about it all and with ease and of course with my trademark flippant behavior towards a very serious situation. How easily I could have succumbed to a serious illness because sometimes I just can’t deal.
I don’t even know where I’m going with this and how I expected to end – this post, I mean. Everything else is fine or at least better. There are some lessons to be learned an extensive amount of therapy copays to deal, the way in which I hurt my friends and family but that will be for later. For now…it’s just getting the words out. See? Selfish.
Somewhat related: If you haven’t read this from Heather Armstrong you should. She says everything I want to say but, of course, better.