May 25th, 2023
***GRIEF TRIGGER WARNING***
I had a panic attack today.
Not the “the teacher called on me and I didn’t know the answer so I had a panic attack” kind, or the “that car stopped in front of me so fast I had a panic attack” kind.
The “feel like you cannot get a breath in, heart palpitations and speeding up to feels-like-it’s-bursting, can’t feel your hands, whole body shakes” kind.
I know that I have to start making myself do things. By myself. I know that I have to find a way to go on. So, practice is what makes that happen, right? Face fear in the face, head on. Just do it. Insert better slogan here.
So I ran a few errands today in Lake City that have to do with what’s been going on: VA to discuss financial issues, bank, a couple of doctor’s offices to let them know he’s gone. For the most part, staying busy is like staying vigilant against the next oncoming slaught of “the overwhelm;” I don’t like the place I call the overwhelm. I had no idea I was headed straight for it. I went next to the place that sells monuments, otherwise known as gravestones or grave markers.
I looked through photographs, walked around and looked at the ones outside, considered options, and was given a folder full of photographs and catalog choices to take home and consider. I remember thinking that some of them were “pretty.” Isn’t it strange to think of something as “pretty” when it symbolizes the end of something beautiful?
I walked to my car. Felt a little wobbly in my legs on the way there but toughed that out. Unlocked and sat in the car and closed the door. Went to reach for the button to crank it. And then it hit.
This isn’t the first one. It was the worst one so far, though. I knew I couldn’t drive for a bit even though I wanted to get out of there, so I sat. I started trying to control my breathing, pushed my seat back and lowered my head toward my knees. I pulled my phone out and opened pictures of him, when he was here, when he was with me. I can’t tell you what I was trying to replace in my head with those photos but one day I will. But suffice it to say that it’s very difficult to get rid of and it has plagued me almost constantly.
I did it. I got it under control. I don’t know how long I was there but I began to lose the numbness in my hands and my knees stopped the shaking feeling. I stayed until I was back in the numb place again.
The numb place is where my brain takes me when I can’t handle anymore. I’m glad it’s smarter than the conscious me because it’s a lifesaver. I’ll feel guilty for not being 100% miserable for awhile, and it doesn’t make me forget anything. It just makes me feel…less.
I’ve felt these things almost come over me quite a few times since the 10th. And “attack” seems like an appropriate descriptive term. A lot of times I’ve realized that if I take some slow, deep breaths right when I feel it coming, and intentionally focus on something other than what is triggering it, I can recover before it overwhelms me. Like in the grocery store yesterday. But this one came so quickly, so out-of-the-blue, that there wasn’t time to head it off.
Yesterday’s almost “attack” was over pickles. I went down the condiments aisle and realized I never have to buy pickles again. I don’t like them, but Scott loved them. I wish I needed to buy pickles. That’s how insidious the emotional terrorism is. Most times it doesn’t even make sense that it would be something to cause such distress. But I took some deep breaths and focused hard on which ketchup bottle and what kind and size I wanted to get and whether generic would taste different and whether I needed mayonnaise at home, too. And then I still felt sad about the pickles but had averted the meltdown, the fear of how I can live when we don’t even need pickles…see how silly that sounds?
But silly doesn’t even enter the equation. It’s real, and raw, and threatening, and terrifying, and devastating. It feels like your heart is literally tearing, vessel from valve from chamber, inside your body. It feels like you’re dying because, inside, you already partially have.
I know that people who love me don’t want to hear descriptions of how much I’m hurting. I know it hurts them to know that I am. But this is something that doesn’t hide in the dark, even when I try my best to keep it out of sight. It’s lurking inside me every moment of every very long day. The last two weeks feels like it has taken two months to pass.
But somewhere, someday, someone will be trying to live through this and I HATE that for anyone else. And they may remember my writings and know to reach out to me, to ask how I did it, how I lived through it. Right now, I don’t even know what I would tell them yet. Every day of this is an unhappy surprise, but one day I’ll figure out how to get a hold of it. One day I can tell them what I did and that their journey may be different but I’ll walk beside them.
I understand now why people in the Bible, you know, in the “olden days”, wore sackcloth and covered themselves in ashes when they were grieving. I literally want to. I haven’t put a drop of makeup on and have barely brushed my hair since it happened because I just don’t want to. What’s the point? But if you poured ashes over me, maybe I would look how I feel. Burned down to nothing. Ash.
And yet one day I will still find a way to rise from them, by the strong, gentle grace of God.
God is in the Outcome 