With Apologies to Yeats, It’s Not the End of the World

It’s been a while since I had panic attacks.  But the last few weeks, I’ve felt overwhelmed all the time.  Between my family and school and two jobs and my brother’s not-quite-heart-attack and the guy who broke into my apartment and graduation looming on the horizon (Christmas looming even closer), sometimes it feels like everything is falling apart, collapsing in and trapping me underneath.  So, I panic.

Panic is bad.  Panic is unproductive.  Panic generally leads me to sit on my bed and talk myself out of bad habits (like large pepperoni pizzas, or fiction instead of homework, or on really bad days razor blades and bandages and the mantra, “Just once, just a little one, and I’ll feel better”).  This way lies madness.

I’m thinking about going back on meds.  The idea of taking that little blue pill every day makes me feel bad and weak and ugly, but logically I know that’s not true.  Logically, I know that recognizing my need for help and asking for it only makes me strong.

Sometimes, when I’m lucky, panic also leads to poetry.  I’m not exactly sure how this works, but if I can snag a solid phrase in the middle of all the heart-pounding, mindless terror, sometimes it leads me out of that part of my head and into a more productive space.  That happened tonight (thank goodness), and I decided to share the results.  Let me know what you think of my first attempt at a video!


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