This is a public service announcement. Or something. What it isn't is your author bragging about some mental disorder. I promise.

I had an anxiety attack today - my first in a couple years. I was grocery shopping and had an overwhelming, all-encompassing, and utterly irrational urge to stock up on paper plates immediately. "If you don't purchase paper plates right now," my brain explained, "everything is gonna fall apart. Lives will be ruined, the time-space continuum will shatter, Limp Bizkit will release another album." This was serious. I was fixated, I was in a loop, and the only prescription was more paper plates. 
​

                                  This guy knows what I'm talkin' about.

I put several packages of paper plates in my cart and strolled over to the tea aisle, figuring that was the end of that. But while searching for Red Zinger, I realized I my pulse was racing and my breathing shallow - I was as tense as an unarmed Ted Nugent on a Disney Animal Kingdom safari ride. Now Red Zinger can be tough to find, but it's hardly worth that much stress. That's when it hit me. "Holy cow," I thought, as I'm apparently a character in 50 Shades of Gray. "I'm having a freakin' anxiety attack. Where the hell did that come from?"

At first, the I found the dichotomy hilarious - after at least 18 episode-free months, here I am panicking in the Safeway! I texted Jill "xtingu" Knapp to let her know what was going on, but she didn't have her phone handy, so she didn't get the message (if she had, she would have immediately walked to the supermarket and driven me home over my objections, because she's Jill). So I stuck to my task of buying up our snow n' ice storm supplies, even as the supermarket started to take on a nightmarish (but still amusing) funhouse-type atmosphere. "I'm buying butter during an anxiety attack," I thought. "I'm buying Fruit Loops, honey, Peppermint Patties, Bugles, and James Dean Pancake Batter-Wrapped sausages while I'm having an anxiety attack. This is kind of punk rock."*

But soon, it was more GG Allin than The Ramones. Consternation replaced my good humor. The tension in my spine, my quickening pulse, my utterly distracted mind, and my rising apprehension made shopping - and especially being around people - more and more impossible. This wasn't funny anymore. I finally stashed my cart in the corner where no one goes (where they store things like raisins, Lunchables, and balut**) and ran out to my car, where I listened to 50s doo-wop for 30 minutes or so and breathed deeply, desperately trying to bring my epinephrine levels down.

Okay, this post is gonna get even duller if I stay on this "and then I..." path. Suffice to say, the Diamonds and the Five Satins calmed me enough to get back in the store and finish shopping (ice cream > panic), check out (thank Cthulhu for those self-scan checkout stations!), and drive home. I unloaded the groceries, hung up my new sports jacket***, and said hi to Jill, who took one look at me and said "To the bed. Right now."​

            She still hadn't seen my text, but this is pretty much what Jill saw.

A dose of Xanax later, I thought I was doing on the mend. I was still physically tense - it was a struggle to get myself out of the fetal position - but my mind was calmer and perspective was returning. I was having rational conversations (for me, anyway) and joking about the whole paper-plates-as-mashed-potatoes-in-Close Encounters fiasco. Plus, a couple hours had passed, so I smiled and sat up - 

- and then came the waterworks. Uncontrollable shaking and crying. 

Bottom line: four hours passed between that first text to Jill and the last of my tears. A short time after that I was perfectly fine (as fine as I get, anyway), ready to conquer great viewings of YouTube and maybe scratch out another verse in a new song probably I'll never finish. But four hours is my longest attack yet - they used to be 90 minutes, tops. 

I don't care for morals (clearly), but if there is a moral, it's this: these things happen, and it's not shameful or necessarily tied to unhappiness. Something misfires in the brain and next thing you know you're stashing your cart and running out to your car in the rain. Granted, these attacks first started when I was unhappy, when my life was a mess and getting messier and my attempts to find happiness were becoming increasingly damaging - they were outlets for emotions I refused to deal with. And when I finally did start dealing with them and tried to get my life back on track (with many stumbles and mistakes, of course), the attacks grew less frequent. And now? I'm deleriously happy. I'm not sublimating, I'm not swallowing, and while not everything is perfect, I'm living a wonderful life, and I'm madly, deeply, hopelessly in love with someone who brings me more joy than I ever thought possible. Sure, I have problems and issues, mostly (but not all) health-related, but the good far outweighs the bad. Shouldn't these episodes be in the past?

Nope. That's not how it works. Today, there it was: a tough little anxiety attack waiting to absolutely blindside me with a poke to my brain.

I swear I'm not trying to aggrandize myself as a courageous figure who must carry a monumental burden. Not even close. My worst attacks are quite mild compared to what many people experience - for them, panic feels like massive, paralyzing, terrifying heart attacks. In my case, it's a more of a glitch, a little misfire, a mini-zap to the brain that finds me no matter what my state of mind. It's no one's fault, and according to many informal surveys, it doesn't make me deep and interesting. ("Hey, am I deep and interesting because I -" "No." "Can I even finish the question?" "No.") But it sure can add a little excitement to a mundane day. 

If this has ever happened to you, please, please tell doctor. When these episodes began, I hid them for months before finally, reluctantly, shamefully admitting to my doctor's PA that I was too weak to face these attacks down and probably needed therapy and pharmaceutical help. She said something wonderful: "Stop beating yourself up. People get sad, they get overwhelmed. You're a human being with emotions, and it isn't a weakness to feel emotions. It's a strength." I do my best to remember that when I need to. Life is beautiful, but sometimes it's a lot harder than it should be, and if a tiny dose of Alprazolam and a good cry can help you through the rocky moments, make it so. And let yourself marvel at what a piece of work is the brain and the body.

By the way, if anyone can use a few paper plates, we've got enough to cater a Duggers' family reunion. (Which I will never, never do, because fuck those guys. I hope they never get to experience anxiety attacks.)

* QUIT JUDGING OUR SHOPPING LIST. It's...for the homeless, okay?

** If you're having a fine day, do not Google "balut." All will be lost. 

*** What, your supermarket doesn't have a Men's Clothiers section? Right next to Haberdashery and Shepstery? Weird.

My house is so still. One child has gone to work, one still sleeps and the other is in his room quietly doing his math. 

I can hear the hum of the fridge. The pur of the outdoor spa. I I hear the dial tone on my neighbours phone, the relentless beeps as she dials and redials a number no one ever answers  and the sighing  as she gives up trying to call whoever it is she is reaching out to. I can hear the key in the door as she locks it behind her and the car splutter to life as she heads off, wherever it is she is going. Noise travels well in stillness. And next door, they are raw, pulsating noise. 

This morning was the shrill screams of a 12 year old not wanting to brush his teeth. The snippets we hear, the language, the fights, makes me think that perhaps these children have some kind of issues that create the daily multiple meltdowns. We've even had soiled toilet paper thrown over the back fence to land in our yard.  You could say these neighbours of ours are what the rest of Australia would derisively term as "Houso's". 

But it's the stillness of these moments, when my children are quiet and hers are at school that I hear pieces of her. The persistent cough she seems to have had for the past four weeks. The constant dialing of a phone that is never answered. A kinder person would go over there, introduce themselves, ask if she was okay or needed a hand. I am not that kind. I just listen. And I know when the working week is done, there will be cars parked all over the roadside and more noise and extra people and more rubbish that finds its way onto my lawn. 

I like the silence, even if it does seem tainted with a kind of sadness. 

Last night we went out for dinner because we had cabin fever. We went to our favorite pub. It was mostly deserted. 

One table away from us were three people, a woman and two men. The woman and one of the men were a couple, and the other man was talking, very, very loudly, about how he would never even joke about wanting to sleep with her, because, of course, they're just friends. She was echoing the same sentiment back to him. He was talking about how even if he finds someone attractive, once they're married, he no longer finds them bangable, because the "no" switch flips and that's all there is to it.

It was totally a "methinks the lady doth protest too much" situation, because the guy was talking so loudly that it was like he was trying to make a very public declaration. It was like the very bad first act of a police procedural tv show, where, 24 hours later, the character that is me should go down and answer the doorbell to find two police detectives on the doorstep, holding a photograph of the woman and her husband, asking if I had seen the two of them lately.

When the noisy guy left, they said to him, "it was nice meeting you." I thought holy shit, it's your first time meeting these people, and you're having the "of course I'd never want to sleep with you" conversation?

Archer told Hunter he was crushing his head (a la Kids in the Hall).

Hunter immediately puffed out his cheeks and inflated his head.

Because of course that's what you do if your brother remotely crushes your head ... why didn't any of us adults think of that?

Too tired to type. 

Imagine Into The Woods, except instead of a forest and palaces and towers and cottages and a village, imagine a library, or a curiosity shop, or both, a magical shelved room with a piano and harp in one corner. And a string quartet just beyond the shelves. 

And everyone's dressed in thrift shop clothes. And lit with strings of fairy lights, and small table lamps. 

The cow is a gently contemplative young man with an accordion. 

Now, if you're a hard core Sondheim fan, imagine "No One Is Alone" in this environment. 

I bawled so hard that Ted put his arm around me. 

I'm not getting sick.
I'm not getting sick.
I can't be getting sick.
Please no.
No.
NO.

UPDATE: My body told me to F myself. Woke up with a fever and swollen glands and unable to swallow. Thank goodness today is Day 3 of class and not Day 1 or 2.  

UPDATE #2: Oh goodie. Delta just canceled my flight home and rebooked me for tomorrow. Uh, no. I'm not staying over an extra night. I want to go home and be sick in my own house.

Today is not my day.

UPDATE #3: Well, at least now I know I can't be angry at Delta... it's not their fault Atlanta (my connecting city) was shut down because it doesn't know how to deal with 8+" of snow. 

https://mobile.twitter.com/NWS_Southern_US/status/570986372053356546?s=09

So instead I bought a direct flight home on USAir and I got home 3.5 hours earlier than I would otherwise have. So it actually worked out... Sick Jill was in bed by 8pm.

Free game.  Yellow 90's Paris.  Absinthe. Occult books.  unspeakble eldritch horror.  Shellefly.

I swear to you I'm not just going to post links to my blog here. I'm just reaaally focused on spending my time adventuring right now, so what little writing I'm doing...

There will be normal stuff here soon enough. For now, check out the latest post over on ROITS...

Please tell me, in the comments, if you had one power/ability from a myth or fairytale, which one would you want?  No answer is too silly or too out there, go.  

Also, ask your kids/friends/partners. 

Archer's school called at 5:00 AM today to say that they would not be in session. This morning was a blur of shoveling and careful driving and this stomach ache that should not be happening because I took my probiotic and didn't eat any dairy ... crap.  I got a soy chai latte at Starbucks.  Or should I say a "soy" chai latte.  Poisoned by the mermaid ... ain't that a fairytale?

"Say my name
And every color illuminates
We are shining
And we will never be afraid again."  - Florence and the Machine, Spectrum

On Valentine's Day I went to my favorite coffee house, Seven Stones Cafe, alone to write something meaningful in Houser's card.  I ran into a few friends and sat with them for a while, and ended up having a long conversation with a dear friend who is, at the moment, unhappy with Houser.  Most of the conversation was not about that, but that part of it stayed with me.  Most of the unhappiness was due to a series of misunderstandings - yes, he did this thing, but why he did this thing mattered and is more understandable than why you think he did this thing ... what I ended up saying is, "There are a bunch of misunderstandings and the two of you should talk face to face."

"If we can so misunderstand, well then, why have we invented the
word love in the first place ?" -Edward Albee, The Zoo Story

I started thinking about all of the misunderstandings that happen in relationships, in our relationship in particular, and how what really matters is not the daily grind of disappointments and imperfections, but that I am in love with a truly good man who shows that he loves me and our life together with hundreds of good acts, repeating day by day.

I am in love with a man who does dishes every night, who works to make money in a world that rejected his education and experience (graphic design jobs in Philly dried up about 5 years ago and there has not been much of a resurgence), a man who wants to be more expressive about his emotions because I want and need that, a man who does not hesitate to watch our difficult toddler any time I want to go out with my friends and only asks when I am going to be back so he can plan his evening, not because he doesn't trust me.  I am in love with a man who works on schoolwork with his stepson and shows him music videos with great drummers, who teaches our toddler to put his socks on and to speak to people nicely.  I am in love with the most entertaining man in the room, the person who, when he is telling a story at a party, other people drift out of their conversations to listen.  I am in love with a man who doesn't like being read aloud to, but who will let me read to him sometimes because he knows I need that type of communication very much.  I am in love with a man whose father (they are extremely close) is suffering through cancer and who still manages to be productive and present in our home most of the time. I am in love with a man who has devoted his heart and his life to me and to our family without holding back.  I am in love with a man who loves the most dysfunctional cat on the East Coast.  I am in love with a man who has the most amazing laugh.  I am in love with a man who writes well and fluently, who cares about grammar and punctuation.  I am in love with a man who hates musicals and who will listen to Mandy sing if I ask him.  I don't ask him very often.  I am in love with a man who can live with a moody, annoying woman who has too many ideas and not enough time and who overthinks and talks too much and has a strong streak of perfectionism and is probably almost as bossy as our bossy toddler.  Almost.

This is our love.  This is our life together.

Happy Valentine's Day.