For the record, I resent being asked how I am when my answer is going to be blown off anyway. There is little I find more insulting than someone wanting confirmation FROM ME that assistance isn’t required.
I don’t want to think about how shitty I feel, and someone not only is content to remind me, but wants me to tell them it’s okay to leave?
I had a panic attack last night while I was getting ready for bed. I fell into bed with my head at the foot and not enough space to stretch my legs.
Dan was already asleep so after several failed attempts to move myself*, I called to him for help. Words cannot express how much I didn’t want to need to wake him. So when he didn’t wake, I tried to sit up again. No dice, I called to him again. He helped me without complaint, but the damage was done a long time ago.
I would rather stay awake all night than trigger a panic attack by asking for an assist. Is that a personal flaw of mine? Am I too stubborn? Good chance. However, my brain sees the non-ask as survival instinct.
I’m working on it.
So I barely slept and had some nightmares when I did sleep. Then today at lunch the anxiety hit me. The hiccups started after my first bite.
Now, hiccups in twos or threes are a common occurrence for me post chemo. More than that, though, and it’s clear what I’m in for. So on the fifth spasm of my diaphragm, I didn’t even bother trying to stop hiccuping.
It hurts when peristalsis stops midway through a swallow. I’d try to explain what it’s like, but I don’t really care to. So just imagine another horrible thing about GAD.
When events of this nature are particularly bad, the depression hits like a wave. I lose my appetite. Every muscle burns from the lactic acid caused spasmic overexertion. My sleep routine gets screwy from all the cortisol and adrenaline.
In short, I hate it. I know it will go away, but until it does I crave oxytocin which means I get real sad and start missing Boomer.