2) The anatomy of a panic attack

NOTE:

I have four pages of scattered disjointed writing in my “latest blog” file in word.
It is all about my struggle with depression over the last few months.
I realised today when I sat down to start writing again properly that none of that was ever finalised and put into this blog.
So for all the people out there with depression, and for those who love people with depression; these posts are for you.
As the week progresses, more posts will go up, and they will be numbered, from earliest (furthest in the past) to most recent to make it easier to keep track.
I hope that they help you see light and hope, and possibility. Because even if it can’t be seen now, it is there, and you WILL find it. You just have to stick it out today. Tomorrow will come.

I’m in a small room, waiting for the people I’m supposed to be meeting.
I started thinking about the things I need to get done, the stuff I haven’t got done. The things people are expecting from me and how I will disappoint them this week.
What a terrible partner I am to be so focused on my work.
My grandmother hasn’t seen me in ages and she is going downhill fast.
My friends seem distant – I need to see them more, but I’m so TIRED.
I flash rapidly between guilt and resentment. Nothing I am doing makes things better, I will never be good enough, I need MY space MY time.
Was this room so hot before?
Jesus, the room is so fucking small.
I can’t seem to get on top of things. Such a loser. Perhaps I should give up.
Gah, I can’t follow through on things. People will call me a quitter.
Even if they don’t, I will know.
Quitter.
Why am I so sweaty?
I can’t breath.
They should be arriving any minute now. I need to think about the work I’m about to present.
Keep calm, be professional. Shit I’m sweating.
Now I will have marks on my blouse and they will KNOW I’m not calm.
They will realise I can’t cope. They will know I’m not good enough, old enough, experienced enough.
Just not enough.
Why can’t I fucking breath?
My chest hurts.
I need air.
Don’t these windows open?
I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t.
Weak weak weak weak. I can’t breathe, I can’t talk.

I can’t cope.

Sent out a message on Twitter.
Terrible jokes and messages of support allow me to step out of the vortex and think outside my own head for long enough to loosen the bands tensioning around my chest.
I get the job done and head to my hotel room to collapse in bed.
The next day I get up and it starts again, but today, you were my saviours.
I owe you my professionalism, my image, my mental health and my greatest thanks.

People who step up to an “I’m not ok” message do more than they ever realise.
Follow these people, they are awesome… and I send all my love and blessings to
@noir_angele
@FallenRedNinja
@RachelRayner
@Billie_Mae
@LaurieFleming
@pulpkorn
@bluemilk
@mymilkspilt

With a very special mention to @StarrLitLove who not only responds to cries for help but oozes her fabulous positivity all over the internet at Courage Hope Strength.
I go there most mornings to start my day with a positive note.