Afternoon Anxiety Attack: A Play in One Pathetic Act

Scene: Driving home from work in the City at 3pm on a Monday afternoon. Spent a bit of time on Twitter beforehand, cursing out the President and sent a message to HWMMS saying something like “I hate Trump so damn much.” (which is not out of the ordinary and something I think in my head at all times.)

It is oppressively hot and humid, a typical late August day in Western New York. (MISERABLE JENNY) Sadly, I’m driving the old SOOB instead of the Escape, which means no air-conditioning and windows open. I am NOT listening to WBFO (I know better.) Singing along to 80’s music.

Also, (in full honest disclosure) note there is a bag of Wendy’s fast food on the passenger seat. I already ate the chicken nuggets with ranch, chicken sandwich and currently munching on fries while sipping a COKE (which is something I NEVER do, rarely, rarely drink any pop, ever Why today? Because…I didn’t make time to pack a lunch, didn’t eat anything all day and was in a bad mood and wanted something greasy and fast..)

Me: Shit. I can’t breathe. Breathe in…breathe out. I need to open the other window that will help. Crap, the other window won’t roll down. I’m not having a panic attack, I’m not having a panic attack. Focus on driving. Not having a—-

Anxiety: FUCK YOU. YOU ARE MINE. Mwhahahahahaha.

Me: Oh God. Not again. Not while driving. Why does this happen? Why me? Is it because I’m a total loser and am scarfing down fast food at 3pm when I should be eating healthy? I can’t breathe. Deep breath. Deep breath. Why am I thinking about how we don’t have health insurance right now? Concentrate on breathing. Even though concentrating on breathing makes me even more painfully aware that I’m having a hard time breathing.  Turn up the music, change station to classical instead. Anything to calm. I hate this. I hate this so much. I hate my…

Anxiety: No, you hate YOURSELF, not me. I am YOU. YOU ARE ME. Mwhahahahahaha. Silly woman, you should know me by now…let me make myself really known.

Me: Dammit. Why is my right arm numb?! This doesn’t usually happen. It only happened that last time when it was reallyreallyreally bad a few months ago and I swear I was having a stroke or heart attack and anxiety attack. Tingling. Numb. Can’t breathe,  is it a stoke? Seriously, my entire arm. ohmygodhowamIstilldriving. I need to pull over, now. Next exit, I can do this, I can (gets light headed…) do…

Anxiety: You dumb fuck. I’m not trying to kill you, I’m just in your headspace. Idiot. You deserve me. you don’t take care of yourself. I’m YOUR fault.

Me: Pulled over and in a church parking lot, breathing in, breathing out. sent message to HWMMS. Posted on Twitter. Trying to get out of my own head, failing miserably. Motherfucker it’s hot in this car. I need to get home. I need to get in the air-conditioning, I can’t breathe WHY CAN’T I CATCH A BREAK. WHY CAN’T I CATCH MY BREATH. How many minutes has it been? I need to drive. Why is my arm numb. Why does this happen to me. What the hell is wrong with me. What’s the point of anything anyhow. Breathe. Focus on breath. No, don’t focus on breath, try to act normal….ok, I can do this. I have to do this. Other people have much worse issues in life, I can do THIS for the love of God. Just drive. Get home.

Anxiety: Silly girl…you never learn, do you?

Me: I’M LITERALLY JUST GETTING ON THE ON RAMP TO THE HIGHWAY AND MY ARM TINGLES AND I GET MORE NUMB? REALLY? NOW WHAT? PULL OVER. I CAN’T BREATHE. I’m such a fucking loser. What the hell is wrong with me. Ok, ok…ok. I need to pull over again. next exit.

Anxiety: Tim Horton’s parking lot, eh? Isn’t that your problem you fat piece of shit? How the hell does HWMMS put up with you? You do this all to yourself.

Me: I got this. Breathe. I got this. Breathe. (I’m pathetic.) Breathe. I got this. Breathe. I’m totally making all this up, this isn’t real, get over yourself you wimp. Breathe. If you didn’t eat crap, you wouldn’t feel like crap. This time, like other afternoon times when it happens, it’s ALL YOUR FAULT.  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Anxiety: Alright, I surrender, for today. Drive home. Take the puppies outside and lay in bed for the rest of the night hating yourself as a penance for not listening to me. Go. I promise, I’ll let you get home.

Me: Fuck you anxiety. Breathing in, breathing out. My God I wish I could just breathe and not think about breathing and then I wouldn’t be panicking and I would be ok again. Why does this happen to me? I hate myself with every ounce of my pathetic being. I hate this. I hate it. I hate it. Ok. I’m home. Only 40 minutes late. Puppies need to go out. I need my bed. Shit, I have things to do. I’m gonna just collapse here on the lawn and look at the sky until I’m calm again. Maybe, I’ll feel better? Snap a photo of sky to remind yourself to write about this moment.

Anxiety: Write, ha. Idiot. I’m not letting you off that easy, go to bed and sleep and feel sorry for yourself all night. Until next time…