for science.

Because of this.

So, panic attacks. I get 'em. They became a part of my life again a year ago, and I can expect one once every six weeks.

A Friday afternoon a few weeks ago, one arrived while I was in the Verizon store, staring at the wall of phone accessories while waiting to pick up my new phone. I was happy walking into the joint, for not only was I about to have a new toy, a glowing hand-held communication & porn machine, I was also about to spend the weekend looking after one of the best dogs in the world. I was in a happy place. But then - to make a long story short - I wasn't. 

We got outta there as soon as we could - i.e., once we got our damn phones - and I was able to mostly recover before our gig that night. (Yep, a gig. My timing sucks.) By Monday, my brain was back to normal (for me). Soon enough, it was time to return to the Verizon store.

And oh, shit.

Just thinking about the Verizon store, picturing that cursed wall of accessories while imagining facing the friendly but Sales-101 people, was giving me another fucking panic attack. And fuck. That. As I tried to calmly let Jill know the thought of returning to the store was getting to me, my voice cracked, everything went blurry, and once again, tension overrode reason.

I did two good things: I went to the store anyway for a successful purchase of phone cases, and soon as I could, I called my therapist. 

I can live with panic attacks. In fact, for a while, they're kind of neat. Sure, they eventually turn terrifying, and they sure are inconvenient. But every six weeks? That's not too bad. My life can accommodate that. 

But. An attack caused by considering returning to the location of the last attack? That there is some bullshit. And I'm not having it. So let's see what the good doctor can do.

Here, in the simplest, shortest way possible, is what said doctor told me:

• Remember when I said panic attacks are kind of neat? (No? Geez, it was only, like, 80 words ago.) Well, what if I was able to think of them as neat while I was having them?
• Panic is tension. By trying to calm down, you are pushing against your panic, and what do you create when you push against something? Tension. You feed the panic by fighting it, even by fighting with "peaceful" tools like meditation and grounding exercises.
• I told my therapist I experience good anxiety and bad anxiety. The good, I explained, is the kind I feed on when I'm about to perform for people; I can turn it into focused energy and let it drive my performance. The bad, of course, is the stuff of attacks - chaotic and unfocused, it makes me feel out of control, sending me into a mess of emotions while making my body shake, sweat, and twitch uncontrollably.
  Doctor: "Matt, good anxiety and bad anxiety are exactly the same. There's only one kind. It's your perception that makes it good or bad."
  Me:  =0

I used to meditate, I found it a great exercise in both relaxation and humility, because as it turns out it's really fucking difficult to just sit and focus on your breathing without thinking. I think it's ultimately about acceptance - accepting who you are, where you are in the moment, what you're feeling, what you're thinking. I was thinking I should really get back to meditating when this happened:

"How about you have a panic attack now?"

Wait, what?

"What if I were to induce a panic attack right now? Then I can show you what I mean about accepting it."

I...uh...

"Actually, no, we're not going to do it now. I can see how much tension the idea is causing you. How about next week?"

If you're thinking "how is this guy going to induce a panic attack? Is there, like a brain button I don't know about?" then you and I were ridin' the same bus (except for that stuff about a "brain button." Where the hell did you get that? That's just silly. Brain button. Come on). But I was game, and willing to bypass my skepticism and work with him as best I could. I made my appointment. And when the day came, I wanted my attack. I doubted it would happen, of course. How could this guy - a guy I trust with my soul, a small, gentle, wonderful man, give me a panic attack?

He didn't He gave me two. 

They weren't complete - they didn't bloom into full-on, out-of-control anxiety - but if he hadn't stepped in to help me stop them, they both would have sent me spiraling into chaos. I'm still reeling from what happened.

The session went like this: I stood behind his desk, staring at his wall of bookshelves, while he stood next to me, blocking my only exit (the desk was against the wall). And while we stood, he asked me to imagine a hundred people in that room, watching us. He used some specifics to ramp up the urgency, and within 10 minutes, maybe 15, I was in the first stages on a full-on anxiety attack - losing touch with visual reality, as though one of my contact lenses was replaced with a tie-dye plastic film. Or...something, the visuals are hard to describe. But my breathing was shallow, my throat was so clenched it was hard to answer his questions, and my neck was on fire.

At that point, when I was on the verge of really crossing over, he asked me to give my body permission to feel what it was feeling. This required saying it, out loud, until I meant it. It really was okay for my neck to be glowing. It was okay for my breathing to puddle-deep, for my legs to feel rubbery, for my brain to be in a cloud. My body was just doing what it had to do, and it's okay. I give it full permission to do these things.

And once I started believing what I was saying, My tension level dropped 15%. A little later, I was taking full breaths, and I could move my legs without effort. 

Neat, huh? But I'm not quite done, and this next part is really important. I'm trying to be concise, because I think this can be really helpful to anyone reading this, and I don't want to risk boring you any further. 

He stepped away, we sat down, we got ourselves together. (His tension had risen too - turns out, he doesn't like to be crowded with imaginary people either.) We talked about what just happened. We chatted, maybe joked, relaxed and reflected. And just when I was almost back to baseline:

"Okay. Let's do it again."

Dude, I - I really, really don't want to.

"I know. But please trust me, you have to do it again. You'll see."

We got in our same place, and he told me about the people, staring, judging. This time, it took only two minutes to get me to the tension level I was before, which is maybe 65%. The sweat started to roll again, and my neck was getting that freshly-slapped feeling I know so well. 

"Okay. Tell your body what you need to tell it."

I took the deepest breath I could. "It is perfectly okay for my neck to feel exposed, for my body to sweat, for my pulse to race. It's okay because once I accept it, my tension will fall."

The tension in my neck spilled onto my cheeks. My heart rate went up.

This wasn't right. 

"I give my heart permission - I give it -  dude, this isn't working. I don't like this please stop, please make it stop please."

"Matt. You just said 'if I accept it, my tension will fall.' That isn't how it works. You're giving it a condition, and panic doesn't accept conditions. You just gave energy to your tension. Don't do that - just accept it. Accept what you're feeling."

I did, to a degree, but I was struggling and really thrown. He let me off the hook, stepped away, and gave me another little grounding exercise to do.

But you see what happened? These attacks don't respond to reason, and they certainly don't respond to if/then logic. I told myself I could make it go away, when I should have just been telling myself to let it happen, to feel my heart race and think "that's okay. In fact, that's good." To feel my neck get red and angry and think "that's okay, neck. You're doing fine. In fact, how cool is it that the body reacts like this." To feel my legs turn to rubber and think "that's okay, legs. You go ahead and get rubbery. People take expensive drugs to feel like this - thank you for letting me feel it all on your own."

So yeah. I'm not remotely there yet. I have to practice, which I'm not looking forward to. But I really need it. My life is too good to have these odd little interruptions scuttle my momentum. That was an incredibly intense hour, and it had an emotional and physical effect on me I'm still feeling, some 32 hours later. But man, what a lesson. So if accepting the anxiety is what I gotta do, I'll be more accepting than an 80s German metal band with a chubby lead singer in K-mart clothes.

       I went a long, long way for that last reference. That's commitment, yo.

Calmly yours,
Matt

Please do not adjust your universe. The slight disquiet you feel is because I've moved OnePo, Boutell.Com, and everything else I run to a different hosting provider. I did that to get more storage, better backups, and more RAM for less money. More RAM, in this case, cuts down on disruptions when I deploy my other apps. The old b-com was running pretty close to its limits.

I've been banging on all the bits and validating that everything is here. For instance, I'm attaching a photo to this message.

That photo just about sums up my present situation: disordered but excellent.

Blues: fearless beings with a magical sense of connection, just screwing around.

Fusion: blues dancing to electronica. Sshh, don't tell them.

Salsa: really pretty math.

Salsa rueda: really pretty partial differential equations.

Bachata: who decides if it's gonna be sexy? Not you, fella.

Cha cha: has nothing to do with Nicole Kidman.

Swing: would you like to dance jitterbug, lindy hop, balboa, charleston or west coast? Oh sorry, I'm a southgoing zax.

Waltz: surprisingly sexy seventy-year-olds in the suburbs. Do try to keep up.

Tango: anger management.

Foxtrot: a thing? I guess? The longer you've been social dancing, the less memory you have of your three foxtrot lessons at that ballroom studio ten years ago.

You know you want it. 

This morning my co-worker, Joe, and I were talking about people with odd names. I told him how I went to kindergarten with a kid named Clark Kent (first, middle), whose younger brother was named Bruce Wayne (also first, middle). 

Clark has embraced his name fully. He's now a top-flight landscaper, and all the branding for his business uses the colors red, blue, and gold. He's a super landscaper. 

"What about Bruce?" Joe asked. 

"I don't know," I said, "but now I want to write a play about that (hypothetical, imaginary) younger brother Bruce, living in a basement, listening to Morrisey, wrapped in a black comforter and tying tools to his belt." 

I'm curious about what the options are once I've posted a thing.

And the answer is: nothing!

“I’m going to live in San Francisco when I grow up”
“Cool, can I come too?”
“Yes, if you aren’t dead”

—

I have reconsidered this chapter verse metaphor in titling journal posts. It more like this is the third book in a series that is my life. Book 1 was childhood & college, Book 2 was corporate employee life, now book 3 is starting. Where will it lead? How will it end??

I’m NOT going to go back and re-title earlier posts. But moving forward, this will be Book 3, chapter 1.

On to this week’s verse : it is a dull one.

I’ve been getting less done than I envisioned a few weeks ago when this book started. I’m still very much in vacation mode, recharge mode. Plus the kid was homesick from preschool 2 days that interrupted some plans.

I did join Instagram as _tinkeress_

I do have an art project list – these will eventually become posts, God willing (and the creek don’t rise):

• BigBall
• LED light wall
• Pennsic garb
• SuperDragon
• Affirmation Collection station
• the subsequent Affirmation cage

And the less interesting adulting list: do my taxes/networking/signing&returning termination papers/bathroom remodel/Garden control/Ceiling repairs.

I had an interesting evening yesterday. I was a DuPont scholar at University of Delaware when I went 1988-91. And the university holds a yearly reception for former distinguished scholars and current seniors. I got to mingle with these clever people, most of which are just starting the second book of their lives. Interesting small talk.

And then dinner with a friend I had from my college days. It has been some years since we sat down together, so we reconnected over much more in-depth real life talk.

And finally, a friend had invited me to his 2 day house party. More interesting types there – young art sorts – some great conversations on the Philadelphia art scene. But it was late and I was winding down, my conversation reserves well tapped. I got home just in time to see the clock change to 3AM.

*I've started up a new blog tinkeress.com - double posting here and there for a while

This recipe is heavily inspired by the New York Times no-knead bread recipe and has snuggled intimately with various bagel recipes on the Internets.

Prep time: 10 minutes
Clock time: 18-24 hours
Yield: 8 bagels

Ingredients

3 cups white flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup oatmeal (plus more for dusting)
1/2 teaspoon instant dry bread yeast
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon sugar
3 tablespoons honey (optional; improves the crumb)
2 cups water, and just a smidge more
Corn meal, for dusting
Kosher salt and crushed anise seed (or other toppings, or none)

Method

Day One

Mix the dry ingredients well in a large bowl. Add the water and mix, just enough to form a dough; do not knead. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap. let it sit overnight, ideally at room temperature. In winter I stash the bowl in front of a heat vent.

After at least 18 hours, wash your hands well and remove the dough, laying it on a surface sprinkled with oatmeal. Fold it over on itself a couple times; really, that's it. You don't have to knead it.

Wrap it up in the plastic wrap you just used for the bowl and let rest for 15 minutes.

Put down a cotton towel or napkin and sprinkle it with oatmeal. Then wrap the towel around the dough.

Day Two

Let the dough rise for 2 hours. Around the 1:45 mark, start preheating the oven to 450 degrees, and boil water in a large pot. Add the honey to the water and stir it in well. The honey greatly improves the crumb of the bagels.

Lay out the dough and cut into eight pieces. Pick up each piece, roll it out briefly between your hands and pinch the ends together to complete the ring. Don't worry if it doesn't look pretty! It just adds authenticity.

Dust a baking sheet liberally with cornmeal to prevent sticking. A non-stick baking sheet can't hurt. If you're out of cornmeal flour or oatmeal will do.

Boil three bagels at a time, until they float or for 20 seconds, but no longer. Remove bagels to the baking sheet. Don't put too many in at a time or the water will cool. Let the boil resume between batches.

Sprinkle lightly with kosher salt and crushed anise seed, fennel seed or other toppings. The middle eastern place around the corner from my office just happens to carry crushed anise seed and I bought some on a whim. I am not as cool as I sound.

Bake at 450 degrees for 20 minutes or until nicely browned.

Fresh bagels are insanely great right out of the oven with your favorite fixins. They also freeze well. I usually eat one almost immediately, let the rest cool, then put three in a bag on the counter and four in a freezer bag.

I tend to alternate between this recipe and simply making bread, which can be done with the same ingredients, but you'll want to add another 1/8th cup of water or so. Bagels pick up extra moisture in the boil and need to be tough enough to resist.

Well crap. Looks like I didn't quite make last night's post before midnight.

Note: I will edit this post Wednesday evening in order to add that night's work to this.

Note II: I have added an excerpt below Tuesday's stuff. Waaaaay down below.

* * * * *

Tuesday's book work. Went a bit over my limit and hit almost 1400 words. Used WriteOrDie. Going to have to turn off the sounds in the future. Those seagull sounds will drive me mental if I listen to them for more than a half hour stint.

This is just a rough, and it's a little scene from the book. I've started to write the scenes up in somewhat random order. Kinda a "whatever I'm in the mood to write" thing. Eventually I'm going to have to come up with a story arc, but for right now, this is something to keep me writing daily.

In the book, Patch is going to meet an outlaw biker. He's the Sargeant at Arms for his club, and he's going to be a big influence on the young werewolf. Of course, he's going to die terribly. This scene is intended to be their first meeting.

As a side note: When I'm writing about "Danny", I'm thinking of an old biker buddy "Denny" that I haven't seen in a long time. Denny, however, was not an outlaw (quite the opposite in fact) but a young me kinda saw him like Danny seems to think Patch sees him.

The Diner

Coffee isn't too bad. Especially for this pit. I can't help but think about Frank as I stare into the murky depths of the cup. Looking up, I see all the chrome and mirrors that is typical of a place like this - and strip clubs. Why is that? What else do diners and strip clubs have in common?

Frank screwed the pooch. Again. Every time I think he's got his shit straightened out, he manages to find a way to prove me wrong. This time he might just manage to pull the club down with him. I can't let that happen. I'm not really sure what exactly I should do about it, but I can't let the club go down. If there's one requirement of my job, that's it.

There's a mirror above the window where the cooks hand the meals out to the waitresses. It gives me a view of all the booths behind me. There's a layer of nicotine on it, but it's clear enough to see all the kids in the booths. It's about the only reason I don't mind having my back to the door. I crush out the end of my smoke, take a sip, and see who's here tonight.

There are only a few folks other than me here. It's late, but not quite bar rush yet. There's a couple in the back corner sitting together on the same side of the booth. So cute it makes me want to chuck. There's an old man sitting a bit further down the counter than me. There's that kid with the eye patch sitting by himself in a booth huddled over a cup of joe. Pretty sure I've seen him here before. That eye patch sticks out. Anyway - he's sitting in the booth adjacent to some nerdy kid.

Lastly, there's the nerdy kid. He's getting harassed by some punk rockers - they hover over him like vultures. It's like something out of a bad movie. They poke and jeer. It's so cliche that even I'm tempted to do something about it, but no one does. That is until Eye Patch does.

First I see him look up. That slight motion was enough to draw my attention to that part of the mirror. The look in his good eye? Death. It catches me off guard, honestly. He can't be more than... 16? I half expect him to stand up and pull a blade.

The punkers don't notice it until he slaps his table. He doesn't make a racket - doesn't spill his coffee - he makes just barely enough noise to draw their attention. The old man down the counter from me doesn't turn around. The couple is completely clueless of course.

They look over at him and I hear their tone shift immediately. He doesn't move an inch. He doesn't blink. They notice. He's said nothing, but his threat couldn't be more clear if he had written it in neon letters. I wonder if that's on purpose. Is he giving them the ability to back out without losing face? No one else is aware of what's happening. Hell, I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't already been looking over at them.

Whether he's doing it on purpose, or not, they take him up on the offer of an escape route. They get in one last jibe at their victim and move further down to another booth - towards the romantic duo, who quickly come up for air and start looking nervous despite the tough guys clearly having lost interest in being tough any more tonight.

My gaze shifts back to Eye Patch. He's looking me directly in the eyes by way of the mirror. He knows I saw the whole thing. Pretty sure I see the world's slightest nod to me in acknowledgement. The set of balls on this kid!

The nerdy kid doesn't take long to request a box for what's left of his meal and then makes his way to cash out and head off into the night. He figures he dodged a bullet. He has no idea that you don't have to worry too much when the bigger monster is on your side.

I light another smoke, take another sip of my coffee, and look in the mirror again. Eye Patch is staring into his cup again with his hands cupped around the brim as if he's trying to store up all the heat he can for the night to come. I can't tell if he's homeless, or if his look is some kind of rebellious thing. Based on the way he is glued to his cup of coffee, I would say it's the former.

I clear my throat while looking in the mirror and he looks up as if I'd said his name. Not eager, but attentive. I gesture with my head that he should have a seat next to me. He cocks an eyebrow, but gets up and moves to the counter.

"That was... interesting." I say, once he's settled in, still looking at him in the mirror rather than turn to face him.

He makes some kind guttural noise but just keeps staring into his coffee. I see. He's going to keep up the tough guy thing, even if his hands are already giving him away. He's looking into his cup, but his hands are fidgeting a bit. He's nervous. I know what I look like. It's a look that goes with riding outlaw. Hell, our prospects are scary to most 'normal' folks. By the time they get their colors? We look like the devil himself. It's been so long since I got my colors, I can hardly remember the day. Still, he did get up and come over.

"You scared of me kid?" I ask. I keep my tone more or less level, but I do put a little bite to it.

He shifts in his chair, but tries like hell to keep his cool. "Should I be?"

"Nah. Not unless you do something I don't like." I nod the waitress over.

"Yeah Danny? You ready for more joe?" she throws the kid a sideways look and has a hard time keeping the sneer from her face. So she knows him. Some kind of history there. I nod to her and she steps over to the coffee machine to grab the pot.

"Hitting the head. I'll be right back." the kid tells me - as if to say "I'm not leaving because I'm scared, just gotta piss, you know?"

I notice he throws a glance towards the punks while he gets up. They're too absorbed in their own conversation to notice.

As she refills my cup, I look up at the waitress. "What's with Eye Patch, Jess?"

She huffs. "Not sure. He comes in sometimes, only ever buys a cup of coffee. Always uses spare change to pay for it. Never tips." The sneer in her tone is palpable.

"Homeless?" I ask.

The look on her face says that she doesn't know, but hadn't really considered it. "Not sure. He seems... too healthy for that."

I nod as he comes around the corner.

He sits back down and resumes his staring contest with the cup.

"Think I'm going to grab a bite Jess." I say before she gets too far away.

She takes my order then gives me a look and glances sideways at the kid. She's asking if she should ask him. I nod.

"Anything for you hon?" Jess should be an actress. If I hadn't heard all her prior derision, I would never have known she disliked the kid.

"Nah. Thanks." he says flatly. There's even a little pain there. He's hungry, I would bet anything on it.

"Get something kid. My treat." I say.

He turns his head and eyes me suspiciously with his one good eye. He takes a few seconds to consider something.

When it looks like Jess is about to walk away, I say simply "Consider it your reward for standing up for the nerd."

"Two over light, home fries, and whole wheat." he says without hesitation, then he resumes staring into his mug. Christ - is he reading the future in that thing? He still seems nervous, though I couldn't say why I think that.

We sit for a bit, just drinking our coffees until the food comes. Calling the food 'good' might be a stretch. It's greasy, and it's hot.

That's good enough.

(ETA: Here's Wednesday's excerpt. I don't want to add the whole thing because, frankly, I don't like tonight's work. I'm tired, my brain is in a fog, and I just have a feeling it's not... good. So far I've been fairly happy, but I still don't have the story arc figured out. I described it to Karen  tonight by saying: "It's like I have boxes and boxes of Christmas Tree ornaments and no tree to hang them on." Seems about right.)

* * * * *

From the scene:

The Aftermath

I cross the street and head down the alley. About half way down the alley’s length, I see the dumpster for the chinese place with the dick for an owner. I push the dumpster under the fire escape. The wheels beneath the big metal thing scream, but it moves, and before long, I shimmy up the side of the dumpster, stretch, and I’m able to reach the bottom rung of the fire escape.

A few minutes more, and I’m on the roof looking across at our building.

There’s no movement at all. Still as a tomb. Which, I guess, it is.

It’s cold as shit tonight. I’ve got a sweatjacket and a flannel coat on top of that, and it’s not enough. The air is damn, and it feels greasy. Every hair on my body feels like it’s standing straight up.

I catch myself pacing back and forth across the roof and wonder how long I’ve been doing so. Five minutes? Three hours?

What the fuck happened?!

I’ve got to get my head screwed back on. Got to calm down and figure this out. I take several long, deep breaths. I think of my friends again, and I gag. There’s nothing to throw up, of course, so it passes fairly quickly.

More pacing and more deep breaths. My friends are dead and I need to figure out why and what happened. I need to… do something.

I go through the mental images I have of the room. My friends all dead. The Diablos. What were they doing there? And who the hell was that other guy? He was wearing doctor’s scrubs. In our abandoned warehouse. Up on the fourth floor. The bikers being there was weird, but a doctor? That make no sense.

I’ve got to go back. I don’t want to, but I can’t think of any other way to find out what happened. It has to have been at least a couple of hours, and no sign of the cops. I have no way of knowing if anyone heard anything, but I’m guessing not. Four floors up in an abandoned building which isn’t attached to its neighbors. And of course, no one in this neighborhood wants to hear anything.

I descend the fire escape and every footstep sounds like it’s making enough noise to wake the dead. I try keep quite, and the harder I try, the louder everything seems to my ears. I damn near break my own neck climbing down onto the dumpster. Everything is cold and wet.

The steps have never felt harder to climb. I only got here about six months ago, but in that time, I’ve brought home several things, including a small reclining chair and carried it up the same steps, but tonight it feels like my entire body is made of lead. I do not want to go back into that room.

I do anyway.