Sometimes, A Snoopy Bandaide Isn't Enough

The normally serene, sparkling Fall Branch creek is rushing through town with wild abandon, splashing against the bottom of the bridge. They're calling for more showers today, I hope it doesn't come down like the ginormous gullywashers we had over night.

I have to admit, I get excited when Mother Nature starts showing off, reminding us that she's still in charge. Thunder boomers, wild winds and hide n' seek sunshine all make me feel just a smidge more alive.

It's not like ya'll didn't already know I was a little nuts.

Speaking of which, I called the good doc's office Wednesday. Apparently I didn't sound so hot because the appointment clerk made me talk to a nurse, who in turn tried to convince me to get my ass immediately to an urgent care center.

Apparently, when you start describing a panic attack in full detail, including the events which set it off, you start to actually HAVE a panic attack, leading the good doc's nurse to suggest she have me something called in right away to keep me from going batshit crazy and jumping off the bridge, ending up as the lead story on the 11 o'clock news to hold me over until I could make it to an appointment next week. She got a little irked when I kept explaining that I wasn't at liberty to leave work until then.

I'm now on day two of a low dose of clonazepam. By Wednesday night I could tell a difference. I was sitting on the couch, watching the boob tube, when it slowly washed over me. I could breathe. My eye wasn't twitching. And for the first time in.. gawd.. forever.. I felt different. I felt normal. I've slept for two nights. Really slept, without waking up at 3 a.m. with feelings of nonspecific fear causing me to get up and pace from one end of the house to the other until I felt I could go back to bed.

I was afraid medication would make me feel loopy or drowsy, but it doesn't. Not at all. I can focus on the task at hand without my mind running off in a gazillion different directions.

Sweet Jesus.. if I'm this amazed at how NORMAL I feel now, how nuckin' futz was I becoming?

I go to see the good doc next week. I'm going to explain to her how I was raised by an inbred pedophile and a controlling ostrich (who sent me for counselling at 13, because the school system insisted there was something wrong, yet forbade me to tell the councilor about anything the sperm donor did, lest they put both of them in jail and send me to a foster home where even worse things would happen to me and did I want THAT on my conscience? Is it any wonder I'm a few fries short of a Happy Meal?) I'm going to tell her that I know I need to talk to someone, but I don't know where to even start.

Surely she can start me in the right direction.

I know this all probably sounds like a bit of TMI. If I used my real name or posted pictures of myself, I probably wouldn't be quite so sharing, keeping my anonymity gives me the luxury of putting it all out there. Maybe there's someone else feeling a little batshit crazy, dealing with 30 year old crap, someone who thinks they're the only one.

Now they can at least know they aren't alone.

Anywho...

I promise to get back to more cheerful subjects this weekend. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this: