perhaps I need more sleep

It sneaks up on me. Stealthily, indiscernible at first, seemingly innocent in its initial touch, with thoughts that seem so innocuous and mundane. Then it strikes, that unseen fist plunging into my chest, clasping hold of my heart and lungs, causing a stutter in the beat, a shortness in the breath. And then that grasp loosens slightly, but does not fully release, it rhythmically clenches to elicit hard pounding thumps in my chest, as my heart struggles to pound and my lungs increase their need for air. My mind whirls with each clench, the thoughts overwhelming, mild concern becoming outright fear, the swirling maelstrom of thoughts, images, worries dragging me further into the darkness of anxiety. My body tenses, the muscles in my face rigid. I can’t look away from the thought pictures swirling by in my head, the hold me captive.

I try to peel away the slithery fingers of its hold by continuing the everyday things I had been doing when I first felt the fingers of press on my heart. Loading the dishwasher, cleaning the counters of the crumbs from dinner, putting to rights the table, the condiments, dismissing the feeling. The fingers get a firmer hold, brushing away resistance as if it were a fly on the wall. Until I finally move to the sofa, compelled by the paralysis of anxiety to the corner spot, where I can wedge myself, ensconced in some measure of protective comfort, buffeted by from side and back, looking to cave myself in. I stare into the room, seeing the pictures move on the television but not paying any attention really, feeling the snout of the dog as it nudges my hand, even rubbing her head, comforting us both. But the mind continues its agitated pacing, delving deeper into the darker images, crafting What If scenarios, the images flash across the movie screen in my brain, forcing my attention to fear and panic.

Some small part of me continually fights the pull, the clutching grabbing of my psyche, knowing that it isn’t real, that it’s just a spiral of fear, of worry. Most times that logic, that KNOWING, that this is just my subconscious run amuck can soothe away the pounding heart and unfilled lungs and peace regains once more. In must be quick to triumph, or the sneaky fingers burrow deep and dislodging those nails become for difficult, eroding confidence and rational thought under the barrage.

This is what my anxiety attack felt like the other night. A sudden stealth assault on my psyche; dark, swift and brutal. It came out of nowhere, or not really out of nowhere, but managed to escape the locks I visualize around the cage that holds my irrational anxiety & panic at bay. Those locks get rusty and breakdown and then I’m the prisoner, for a day or two, of shaky confidence, worried thoughts and fears.

Luckily SuperHubby is pretty attentive to my moods, could sense the change in my attention, my demeanor, who knows what really, but he sat down with me and finally it snapped, my control. I huddled there, clutching him, sobbing and pouring out all the disjointed, unfettered, renegade thoughts and worries that were swirling in my brain. And then it was gone, leaving the usual after effect, shaky emotions, shattered confidence and fatigue. Once I had settled down, SuperHubby frowned at me and said, “You are an idiot.” Because he is so gentle and subtle like that. “Weeks of 5 hours of sleep a night, early mornings, too much caffeine, worrying about stupid shit.” Yes he did indeed say stupid shit, blowing off the gnawed bones of my anxiety. He is direct and sometimes it's really annoying when he’s right.

I feel a little better, but the fatigue, volatile emotions and weak confidence hover on the edges. I’ve experienced these anxiety attacks before; they are often triggered by stupid frustrations but fueled by larger worries simmering deep inside, concerns about work, money, family health, the dog, the schedule, and on and on and on. I am a champion worrier, they should give degrees for the level at which I fret. Or at least present me with award of more small batch bourbon. When the tiniest irritations damn near sent me into orbit the other night, I should have just sat my anxious ass down and practiced deep breathing exercises to get myself under control, which usually works. But no, I ignored the signs and paid the price.

I went to bed at 9:30 last night when my head almost slammed into the table I had set the beading board on, thinking I would spend an hour or two working on a project. Oh no, that would not do, my brain decided as I laid out some gemstones and crystals, finding the patterned I liked. There will be no more thinking and doing today. And just like that, the creative window closed its shutters and the fatigue took over.

Dreams of Mark Harmon kept me company all night long. I might have to go to bed early more often.