Today.
I had a panic attack.
In the middle of town, whilst my parents and some others and I were doing a giveaway. It aggravated the situation that it was in public and that it was detracting the point of the day from giving away chocolates and I was fully aware of that yet unable to control what was happening.
It also didn't help that whenever anything like this has happened in the past, especially around church people, my parents have tried to shove it all under the carpet. When I was eleven something happened one Sunday morning, I can't remember what, that made me feel like I was worthless, so I clung to my mother unable to smile for the congregation, and my father told me off because people were asking questions. So when the attack was over this afternoon, I knew what I had to do: keep as low a profile as possible; I had to pretend that I didn't exist. When Paddy said something (I didn't hear) Dad just said, "Oh, she's always very quiet."
That felt like a knife in my heart.
When we got back in the house Dad started saying about how "everyone found it difficult today" and "it's not your fault that it didn't go well" which was completely missing the point.
The point was that I'd had a panic attack and this is how it all started last time.
I ran upstairs and cried. I bawled. When there were no tears left to shed I still cried. I thought about how awful it was last year, how terrible it was trying to cope with everything that went on with my head.
The dragons, the static, the "friends". The, "why does everything that happened to me happen to you a few months later" as if I wanted to go through what she went through. (It was painful enough watching on the sideline as everything I tried to do got thrown back in my face, to think I could willingly inflict the same upon her or anyone else is nauseating)
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a plastic bag. In my mind I saw broken pottery, then my hands, tying a knot, at the back of my head. But no, not yet. At least write them a note. Paper. Pen. Short and sweet, even though I didn't know what to write.
'I'm sorry.'
"Are you going to come and watch the rugby with me?"
A reply is expected. I know if this is going to happen I need to do it before worrying parents come upstairs.
'I'm not brave enough to face it all again.'
But too late. Another voice, closer, accompanying footsteps on the last step.
"I made you a pot of tea..."
I screwed up the paper before she entered, as my eyes find their emergency saltwater stores. After minutes of attempts to say something in response to the prying questions masked by concern and misunderstanding, something breaks free. It's not comprehended but a few more attempts give birth to a river of words, rapids of crashing syllables turned on their heads by the rocks, spluttering and cascading into nothingness.
Inside I am kicking myself for it is once again occurring; I cannot stop it. The bed, the position, the pillow. The hand being kicked away from the thigh in fright, the entrance of the second parent.
The next panic attack, characterised by its uncontrollability, takes over. the sobs wrecking the body it fights, I want to throw up. Calming arms cannot stop it, nor can the fragile beast in the depths of my fingers.
I think the stumble jolted the balance.
I'm helpless now; to leave them to find the body on a Sunday morning would just be spiteful.
In the middle of town, whilst my parents and some others and I were doing a giveaway. It aggravated the situation that it was in public and that it was detracting the point of the day from giving away chocolates and I was fully aware of that yet unable to control what was happening.
It also didn't help that whenever anything like this has happened in the past, especially around church people, my parents have tried to shove it all under the carpet. When I was eleven something happened one Sunday morning, I can't remember what, that made me feel like I was worthless, so I clung to my mother unable to smile for the congregation, and my father told me off because people were asking questions. So when the attack was over this afternoon, I knew what I had to do: keep as low a profile as possible; I had to pretend that I didn't exist. When Paddy said something (I didn't hear) Dad just said, "Oh, she's always very quiet."
That felt like a knife in my heart.
When we got back in the house Dad started saying about how "everyone found it difficult today" and "it's not your fault that it didn't go well" which was completely missing the point.
The point was that I'd had a panic attack and this is how it all started last time.
I ran upstairs and cried. I bawled. When there were no tears left to shed I still cried. I thought about how awful it was last year, how terrible it was trying to cope with everything that went on with my head.
The dragons, the static, the "friends". The, "why does everything that happened to me happen to you a few months later" as if I wanted to go through what she went through. (It was painful enough watching on the sideline as everything I tried to do got thrown back in my face, to think I could willingly inflict the same upon her or anyone else is nauseating)
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a plastic bag. In my mind I saw broken pottery, then my hands, tying a knot, at the back of my head. But no, not yet. At least write them a note. Paper. Pen. Short and sweet, even though I didn't know what to write.
'I'm sorry.'
"Are you going to come and watch the rugby with me?"
A reply is expected. I know if this is going to happen I need to do it before worrying parents come upstairs.
'I'm not brave enough to face it all again.'
But too late. Another voice, closer, accompanying footsteps on the last step.
"I made you a pot of tea..."
I screwed up the paper before she entered, as my eyes find their emergency saltwater stores. After minutes of attempts to say something in response to the prying questions masked by concern and misunderstanding, something breaks free. It's not comprehended but a few more attempts give birth to a river of words, rapids of crashing syllables turned on their heads by the rocks, spluttering and cascading into nothingness.
Inside I am kicking myself for it is once again occurring; I cannot stop it. The bed, the position, the pillow. The hand being kicked away from the thigh in fright, the entrance of the second parent.
The next panic attack, characterised by its uncontrollability, takes over. the sobs wrecking the body it fights, I want to throw up. Calming arms cannot stop it, nor can the fragile beast in the depths of my fingers.
I think the stumble jolted the balance.
I'm helpless now; to leave them to find the body on a Sunday morning would just be spiteful.