I'm suddenly reminded of that time that I told someone I thought I was having a panic attack.
Note that upon careful research, it is said to be easily misconstrued for anxiety attack with distinct differences that may or may not overlap. And as much as I have read about this, I don't think my brain gives a shit when the "feeling" strikes.
And so I have that "feeling" again.
My chest doesn't hurt nor does it feel tight, but it has that same vibe of two walls closing in ever so slowly that perhaps it's just "mildly" inconvenient. I feel like I want to cry — and for someone who is usually just soft and "fragile" upon waking up from naps or sleeps, I feel like death looms ever so tauntingly.
I feel like I want to vomit but my stomach doesn't hurt. I feel like there's a thin metal pipe in my throat that fits the length of my neck. I feel like I'm going to choke on it but I also know that it's not real.
And then I recall that one time I told someone that I might be having a 'panic' attack.
Note that I am not one who enjoys or find comfort in telling people my problems, even the lightest ones. I don't talk about heartaches or personal matters but only to a very, very select few — two people.
I remember that we got into a fight because they were so heavily focused on the difference between panic and anxiety. I remember them listing me symptoms and proving why I used the incorrect term as if that's where my headspace was at.
I didn't have any expectations of them comforting me, but it makes me question when people say "you can talk to me about anything" — mainly because anyone can talk to me about anything and I won't be a dick about it.
Sure, I will take eons to respond because of the plethora of bullshit I have to deal with and how easy my social battery depletes as I constantly counter the will to die, but you can talk to me about anything.
So I sat there waiting for them to finish and counter every response I have as I tried to explain what I'm feeling. Doing my very best to answer as they interrogate my emotions so we can come to a conclusion whether it's a panic attack or anxiety attack.
I still didn't care.
But the "feeling" was heavy. And it's the only way I can describe it — "heavy".
With all that said, I couldn't help but be reminded as to why I simply don't like telling people my problems or how I feel about a certain way. My brain rewires itself to "just tell them your thoughts about the movie or a certain activity" — never anything personal.
And even on times I want to spill my heart out to that person, there's some form of gate within me that just automatically barricades the way out. It's not closed or anything and it is generous enough to let me through the gaps if I want to. And I should think of it in a way of protecting me from that unexpected pain of reaching out only to be swatted down for not 'correctly' doing so. But that isn't the case it seems.
Predominantly, it makes me feel like the gate is there so I won't have to disturb their peace and rile them up. That it is there enough for them to stick their hand in and tell me 'it's okay' to tell them things just as it is wide enough to do the same and strangle me from the other side.
So the brain simply does what it has done best for me. We push these emotions away, schedule them on weekends such as this so it won't affect my work days. But I guess I'm getting too old and tired to keep at it.
I feel broken.
I love myself without a doubt and I know my limits. I know I can do this and as unhealthy as it is to reschedule your emotions, it is MY form of regulation.
I suppose it's just messy now because I thought it was okay to try again this time. To let the words swirling in my head trickle down senses low enough to the point of vulnerability so my mouth can spit them out.
They're everywhere now and I feel icky. I do not like this mess. And so, like an adult I suppose, I would just cry about it for a few minutes and hope the 'feeling' fades so I can get off my desk, will myself to walk out of my apartment and maybe treat myself to a nice meal.
A meal that will take me hours to decide.
I feel like I need to drown.
I feel like I need to feel submerged so heavily underwater to an extent of feeling that I am alive through the form of a near-death experience. To remind myself that I have some form of autonomy than just feeling like I'm on autopilot.
I feel like I need to disappear for a little bit.
Disappear back here — not die. I cannot afford to. And my cat needs me.
But I feel like I need to just not exist for a moment and think.