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Last night was a terrible, awful, no-good, very bad day. I had a panic attack and spent most of the night clutching my chest and retching into a pot.
PROTIP: Carolina barbecue isn't so hot on the return trip. The more I heaved, the more I wanted to heave because it was that awful. It tasted like gallons of liquid smoke.
It was a rough night My attacks usually subside once I vomit, but this one put in an encore performance an hour after the first wave. Whee! More retching. More yarf in the ends of my hair. More disgusting sound effects from my spasming esophagus. The worst part about my anxiety attacks--beside the fact that they almost always coincide with my menstrual cycle--is that they're self-perpetuating and exacerbated by my CP. The more I panic, the tighter my muscles spasm. The tighter they spasm, the more convinced I become that it's not a panic attack this time, that it's The Big One, the fatal heart attack that's lurking in my genetically-predisposed arteries. The more I consider that, the more I panic, and the tighter my muscles seize. So there I lay, locked in a vicious cycle of self-fulfilling prophecy.
It took an Aleve to quell the bodily insurrection. Within five minutes of taking it, I was zonked. That, more than anything, speaks to the psychosomatic nature of the illness. While Aleve is fantastic for headaches and cramps, it does not instantly relieve heart or gallbladder attacks and render the user insensate.
Roomie crammed himself into my room last night so that I wouldn't feel alone and afraid, and now, I'm better, if a little sore and sprung from writhing on the bedsheets and bringing up my toenails. Sometimes I forget how awesome Roomie is, and how lucky I am to have him.
In more awesome news, bassist Olli Riedel has confirmed that Rammstein will tour the U.S. in September and October, just in time for my birthday.
I knew that Rammstein fund would come in handy. ~squee~
PROTIP: Carolina barbecue isn't so hot on the return trip. The more I heaved, the more I wanted to heave because it was that awful. It tasted like gallons of liquid smoke.
It was a rough night My attacks usually subside once I vomit, but this one put in an encore performance an hour after the first wave. Whee! More retching. More yarf in the ends of my hair. More disgusting sound effects from my spasming esophagus. The worst part about my anxiety attacks--beside the fact that they almost always coincide with my menstrual cycle--is that they're self-perpetuating and exacerbated by my CP. The more I panic, the tighter my muscles spasm. The tighter they spasm, the more convinced I become that it's not a panic attack this time, that it's The Big One, the fatal heart attack that's lurking in my genetically-predisposed arteries. The more I consider that, the more I panic, and the tighter my muscles seize. So there I lay, locked in a vicious cycle of self-fulfilling prophecy.
It took an Aleve to quell the bodily insurrection. Within five minutes of taking it, I was zonked. That, more than anything, speaks to the psychosomatic nature of the illness. While Aleve is fantastic for headaches and cramps, it does not instantly relieve heart or gallbladder attacks and render the user insensate.
Roomie crammed himself into my room last night so that I wouldn't feel alone and afraid, and now, I'm better, if a little sore and sprung from writhing on the bedsheets and bringing up my toenails. Sometimes I forget how awesome Roomie is, and how lucky I am to have him.
In more awesome news, bassist Olli Riedel has confirmed that Rammstein will tour the U.S. in September and October, just in time for my birthday.
I knew that Rammstein fund would come in handy. ~squee~
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