Azure Jane Lunatic (Azz) 🌺 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
azurelunatic) wrote2003-06-01 03:52 am
azurelunatic) wrote2003-06-01 03:52 am
Fun. (Anatomy of a panic attack)
I feel bad about getting so obsessive. Every now and then, something attaches importance larger than itself to it, and it suddenly becomes imperative that I know what is going on.
Take, for instance, the monitors.
...Two old, broken-down monitors from DeVry. One mine, on loan to Marx as his old one had blown; one theoretically belonging to the Little Fayoumis, on loan to Enki until such time as his own computer gets delivered.
...And somehow, they get given into the care of Boss to get sold.
My mind works slowly, and I'd missed several key points along the way. So, when everything finally caught up and got put together, I was annoyed. And upset. And, before getting more upset, wanted to know what the hell was going on. And couldn't sleep. And decided that the best course of action was to find out.
So, I tried.
Evidently, I am unable to communicate in a coherent, sane, and adult fashion with my roommates when I am upset.
This inability makes me feel horrible about myself, and makes me wish I had never been born, never come to Phoenix, et cetera.
It is especially bad when I thought that, finally, this time, I was suceeding... and somehow, I wind up to have failed. Again. It makes me wish to give up the proceedings as a bad job, and retreat to somewhere that there is no risk of my being misunderstood. ...It does not help that when I display visible signs of upsetness, those who I'm trying to communicate with don't seem to be getting what I'm trying to communicate, and only respond to the upset, with fear and upset of their own. When I fail to communicate, I panic.
Spiral.
Down.
Bad.
They went to bed, me still failing to communicate. Hurts.
Sit silently on couch another long while, and do the internal battle. Yes, rake nails down arm deeply enough to leave an hour red stripe, not deeply enough to break skin. Once on each arm. Safe release of anguish. Feels so good to feel the pain and know that I don't have to hurt myself more, that this will do. No budget for flying to Alaska, back home. Not the time to call Mama to have her buy me a ticket. Can't give up on college. Can't leave them in the dust with no babysitter. Not the time of night to call Darkside. Not the time of night to call Ro. Don't know where phone card is. So tempting, to think of blood. But shouldn't. Old battle. Gets easier to win every time. Don't have to have the promise of the next Star Trek movie to keep me alive to see it, like back in 1994. 10 years, nearly, still alive. Never once picked up that blade with intent. This time, no cuts, no pinpricks, no nasty scrapes, just two rows of scratches, nearly faded now. Didn't consciously think of Darkside, how I could not die because of him. Wasn't a thought. Wasn't an argument.
Safe to be alone in my room, now. Turn off the lights in living room, make sure door locked. Safety first. Go to room, with phone, close door. Maybe he put the phone card in here? No? Not lock door. Would upset them too much. Sit down at computer. Good. Rainy on. Good. Clergy.
Talked. Barely, at first. Burst out into wild sobs, now that someone had caught me, safe hold me on planet, to life. Explained. She listened. Got virtual hugs. Was what I needed. Not panicking, not doing-everything-to-make-the-crazy-girl-calm-down, just listening, answering questions if I had them, hugs. That's all it takes. I'm not that fucking insane, to be coddled and handled with kidgloves.
...
...
Take, for instance, the monitors.
...Two old, broken-down monitors from DeVry. One mine, on loan to Marx as his old one had blown; one theoretically belonging to the Little Fayoumis, on loan to Enki until such time as his own computer gets delivered.
...And somehow, they get given into the care of Boss to get sold.
My mind works slowly, and I'd missed several key points along the way. So, when everything finally caught up and got put together, I was annoyed. And upset. And, before getting more upset, wanted to know what the hell was going on. And couldn't sleep. And decided that the best course of action was to find out.
So, I tried.
Evidently, I am unable to communicate in a coherent, sane, and adult fashion with my roommates when I am upset.
This inability makes me feel horrible about myself, and makes me wish I had never been born, never come to Phoenix, et cetera.
It is especially bad when I thought that, finally, this time, I was suceeding... and somehow, I wind up to have failed. Again. It makes me wish to give up the proceedings as a bad job, and retreat to somewhere that there is no risk of my being misunderstood. ...It does not help that when I display visible signs of upsetness, those who I'm trying to communicate with don't seem to be getting what I'm trying to communicate, and only respond to the upset, with fear and upset of their own. When I fail to communicate, I panic.
Spiral.
Down.
Bad.
They went to bed, me still failing to communicate. Hurts.
Sit silently on couch another long while, and do the internal battle. Yes, rake nails down arm deeply enough to leave an hour red stripe, not deeply enough to break skin. Once on each arm. Safe release of anguish. Feels so good to feel the pain and know that I don't have to hurt myself more, that this will do. No budget for flying to Alaska, back home. Not the time to call Mama to have her buy me a ticket. Can't give up on college. Can't leave them in the dust with no babysitter. Not the time of night to call Darkside. Not the time of night to call Ro. Don't know where phone card is. So tempting, to think of blood. But shouldn't. Old battle. Gets easier to win every time. Don't have to have the promise of the next Star Trek movie to keep me alive to see it, like back in 1994. 10 years, nearly, still alive. Never once picked up that blade with intent. This time, no cuts, no pinpricks, no nasty scrapes, just two rows of scratches, nearly faded now. Didn't consciously think of Darkside, how I could not die because of him. Wasn't a thought. Wasn't an argument.
Safe to be alone in my room, now. Turn off the lights in living room, make sure door locked. Safety first. Go to room, with phone, close door. Maybe he put the phone card in here? No? Not lock door. Would upset them too much. Sit down at computer. Good. Rainy on. Good. Clergy.
Talked. Barely, at first. Burst out into wild sobs, now that someone had caught me, safe hold me on planet, to life. Explained. She listened. Got virtual hugs. Was what I needed. Not panicking, not doing-everything-to-make-the-crazy-girl-calm-down, just listening, answering questions if I had them, hugs. That's all it takes. I'm not that fucking insane, to be coddled and handled with kidgloves.
...
...
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I have free long distance with mci neighborhood. You can email me your number and I'd call and chat with you, or you can just email me and we can talk back and forth on the computer, I don't have a messenger set up right now but probably will soon. Yahoo most likely.
I know we haven't known each other long, but I have that whole communication frustration thing going for me to, related to my borderline personality crap. I can relate to what's happening, even if there isn't much I can do about it. Feel free to contact me if you need to! Bandsidhe@adelphia.net
I'm sorry you had a bad night...I hope you are feeling better.
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For future reference, does it take a phone card to call collect?
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