When Anxiety Strikes
I want to give myself a pat on the back for making it to physical therapy Wednesday. I didn’t want to go. In fact, I was ready to cancel again. I did my outpatient PT out of stubbornness, but I was plenty anxious about it.
Mostly anxiety strikes when I think about getting in the car and leaving the house. It’s a production centering on me, and I hate that I feel like I have no control over how much it’s going to suck.
That plus worrying what I’ll do to stress and strain everyone in the vicinity is just too much. I can’t worry about everyone else, and yet I can’t not worry about everyone else.
So I get overwhelmed and the panic sets in. My brain and muscles quit communicating. I grip the Rollator brakes while trying to walk forward. I literally fight myself and collapse with the exhaustion of it all.
Let me back up a little though.
Tuesday was another trip to the dentist, and after two fillings and giving Dan a piece of my mind, I had one heckin’ doozy of a panic attack. The drill squealing in my ears and rattling everything in my head put me on every edge imaginable, and I was already convinced Dan was just going to dissociate permanently.
I was not in a sustainable headspace.
Dan had said he’d read my previous blog—the one where I wrote about our conversation—but that didn’t silence his provoked demons, so I dove in again.
“If I have something to say to you that you’re not going to like, do you want me to say it to your face or do you want it in an email?” It was a genuine question. I didn’t know the answer, and I was too tired to assume.
He chose me swearing at him to his face. I obliged.
I told him he was being passive-aggressive, and that I was honking steamed that he was perpetuallly mad at me for apologizing excessively when all I wanted to do was make his life as my caregiver easier.
For example, I was suggesting different ways to help me from shower to bed and wondering about his arthritis when he said sharply, “Stop worrying about me.”
The “Take care of your own shit,” wasn’t explicitly stated, but it was definitely implied. It hurt and pissed me off. I felt like he was determined to be mad at me for ev-uh-ree-thing, and when I feel I’m being unfairly blamed the blamer is gonna hear about it. I promise.
Between my in-person tirade and the blog post and then the subskeets on Bluesky, I think I got his attention. He was patient-er with me than I was with myself at therapy.
When Mom asked me how PT went, and I said, “Ehh, okay.” Dan told her not to let me lie and said I did really great.”
Shoot. It. In. My. Veins.
He said sweet things to me and about me, and I told him it didn’t hurt when he touched me.
(It literally physically hurt when he brushed up against me I was so overwhelmed and overstimulated. I never knew what was going on though. I thought I was just broken.)
I told him I still think it’s funny when he calls me a dick—just not when I’m being vulnerable about anxiety.
I can work with this. To dig out from under this anxiety rock, I need a sturdier shovel and the dirt to stop multiplying.
Anyway, at PT the therapist was explaining that my brain map was smudged when it came to my right side and that I was okay. And I could feel my lip quivering as I squeaked out airy responses to her questions. I didn’t cry, but I was so damn close.
She asked me if I wanted some tissues for the ride home, and I nodded yes.
There was a friendly patient in the waiting room, though. So when he greeted us with a “good morning” on my way out, I sobered up.
Still no OSHA recordable sob fest. But I’m getting there, and when I do finally ugly cry? I will celebrate.