I Just Had a Hilarious Anxiety/Panic Attack

Hilarious is probably not the first word that comes in mind in connection with mental episodes. Especially if you’re the sufferer. But when you look at it with the eyes of the observer, it is really the best word to describe it. Hilarious.

I just had an acute mental episode over nothing. What happened? Like I say, nothing. All I did was walking over to sit at the computer and get some work done. And whoosh. Out of the blue I can’t breathe and feel a pressing urge to peel my skin off in one piece like a snake because there’s a weird sensation all over it.

I totally get that some of my fellow nutcases bang their heads against the wall or cut themselves. Clear-cut physical discomfort is a breeze. Weird mental discomfort is—weird. Also, maddening; though I’m not sure how it applies when you are already mad.

So, doing my best to perform the breathing exercise designed for panic/anxiety attacks, I hop (limp shakily) on the yoga mat and go for a classic guided breathing meditation that I have bookmarked on my phone. Now I not only want to peel my skin off but also want to rip the headphones off my head and toss the shit out of the window because it feels crazy weird against the ears too.

As the meditation progresses, so does my panic because the exercise isn’t working. However, successfully overcoming the temptation to grab the phone and toss it the same way as the headphones, I complete the meditation, put the stuff out of the reach of crazy people, remove my shorts because they feel weird and move on to administer a Lexaurin pill.

Ten minutes later, I can breathe normally. Well, not really, I could breathe normally but I can’t at the moment because I’m having a fit of hysterical laughter at myself. As I’m putting my shorts back on because they are perfectly legit, totally comfortable and don’t feel weird at all, I’m wondering what the fuck that was.

Apparently, I had a panic attack over absolutely nothing.

Well, okay, so maybe there is a workload I’m freaking about, which might have triggered the reaction. But come on, tell me something that’s new or, even better, tell me one rational reason why I should be entitled to panic over work. It’s not like my life depends on it.

Well, okay, so maybe my life does depend on my ability to work my workload. But, so what, let’s not try to reinvent the wheel here. Same old, same old: I’m a means of production owned by the capitalist society blah blah; also, exploitation, inequity, overwork, underpay blah blah, so everything is as it should be.

Well, okay, so maybe everything isn’t as it should be. However, who is to say what should be? Not me. Not anyone, as far as I’m concerned. (I wonder if that makes me an anarchist? And is that a bad thing? — I’m glad I don’t subscribe to the good/bad dichotomy, looks like it’s complicated as fuck.) My point is: what is there to panic about when there is no point anyway? I wish my panicky brain finally got it. Duh.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Smile (if You Can)

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Smile.

I colour. Colour is used as a verb here. I do not identify myself with colour, as in I am a colour. Though, if I were a colour, I’d totally be pitch-black.

I’m on the Beach and My Mind Is a Scary Place

Don’t be alarmed. I’m not really on the beach. Global warming didn’t escalate so quickly as to bring the ocean to Europe’s centre. Though I’d very much like it. I mean, apart from the fact that a bunch of countries would literally drown, I’d get to live on an island, and it would be the end of the world.

My mind is a scary place. That’s probably alright, since the world is a scary place. In an attempt to counter this, I am mindful as fuck. My mind is full of it. Full of crap, that is. My crappy mindfulness (or mindful crappiness) manifests itself at its best (worse) when I meditate. Again, don’t be alarmed. I don’t really meditate.

I practise an approximation of meditation. I’d like to say that it leads nowhere, but that’s not entirely true. It leads to scary places. Such as the beach. Let me explain (finally). I was trying this meditation with visualisation when you imagine yourself on the beach. It was awful. No, I don’t mean awesome. It was the worst, as you can see for yourself in said video below.

Imagine yourself alone on a secluded beach, it starts. Not with these exact words, I don’t remember how it starts, but that’s how I now imagine it starts. Obviously, this is the perfect scenario for a horror movie. Or a dystopian movie. Or a perfectly normal average movie as seen by my dystopian horror mind.

This meditation setting raises a number of disturbing questions. How am I on a beach? I’m not on holiday, I don’t do holidays because holidays are for losers (and rich people). Where is everyone? Has there been the end of the world (finally) and did I miss it because I don’t watch the news? Where’s the murderer (or, even worse, the mugger)? I say, murder me anytime (as long as it doesn’t hurt—too much) but don’t you dare to mug me (because priorities).

Imagine yourself walking on the beach blah blah blah. Okay. It’s getting weirder and weirder. Why would I walk on a beach? It doesn’t look like I’m going to get my groceries or anything. I’m certainly not taking a walk because come on, I don’t walk purposelessly, I’m not a stray kitten. Speaking of which, where the fuck is my cat? Seriously. This is terrifying. Not knowing where I am is one thing but not knowing where my cat is is another. And much worse.

A random model beach

It’s not like I’m not trying to play along. I imagine myself walking on the beach, as per request. But, did I apply sunblock? Am I wearing my prescription glasses or sunglasses? If the former, it’s pretty hazardous because I’m light-sensitive, and if the latter, it’s pretty hazardous because I’m semi-blind. Also, where’s my purse? The guiding voice doesn’t mention a purse. How is aimless wandering without your keys and wallet (and your cat) supposed to be a relaxing visual?

I’m stumped. Wait. I’m told I’m carrying a beach towel under my arm. What is this shit, the hitchhiker’s guide to galaxy? I shouldn’t be carrying a beach towel because I don’t own a beach towel. I’m sure I wouldn’t buy it, duh, so did I steal it or what? I’m trying to imagine the incriminating evidence away but the big brother voice tells me to spread the towel on the sand and sit on it. Sigh.

Great. So I’m sitting on a dubious towel on the ground in the middle of nowhere. Now what? This is extremely unproductive. I’m being bored to the brink of my early demise. The video was supposed to be ten minutes but it’s been like ten hours already. Hey, guys, move on, I got stuff to do and bills to pay. I can’t be doing nothing. It’s killing me. I can’t even. I think I suck at this shit. The voice finally says I’m free to go and threatens that I can return to here anytime I need. Anytime I need to get more anxious? Okay, thanks.

I Am Where I Was Meant to Be

I don’t even know what the title of the post means (but I can’t be bothered figuring out a more meaningful one). What is it, to be where you’re meant to be? Who does the meaning? I don’t know. I know who doesn’t do the meaning though: me. (Also, god, because I’m godless and faithless.)

I’m a self-declared Buddhist. Dalai Lama’s Cat advises to turn our prison into a monastery. The idea is that while you’re still confined, you bring into play an element of deliberate consent. I’m also Freudian. Freud advises that when you can’t have what you want, you must want what you have. These two are basically the same idea.

If it were entirely up to me, I wouldn’t choose to be where I am, physically and mentally. On the other hand, why not? There are sure worse places, literally and figuratively. I believe in determinism in the sense that where and when you are born predetermines your options. Don’t tell me that my life would be the same if I were born in a dirt hut in the heart of darkness (that’s literary speak for Congo, Africa).

Having been born in the second world has its amazing perks. Awareness, for example. We’re here an advanced society enough not only to know in theory that there are more advanced societies but also to practically know how exactly they live. I don’t think people in the dirt huts of the third world are quite clear on what life in the first world looks like. I have the benefits of internet, formal education and international friends, so I dare say I am quite aware of what it is to live elsewhere.

Tesco does not sponsor this post

The second world awareness to me means that I know that I could have been better and also that I could have been worse. I can visualise both variants rather well. Knowing this, I’m also appreciative that I haven’t ended up worse. Sure, I’m a struggling overworked freelancer in a cold flat in a shabby small town, but hey, it’s not like I have to walk ten miles to get water from the well and there are rapists and robbers on the way.

I argue that second world people are the toughest. When you don’t know what you could have had, if only you were born differently, you don’t desire it—you have no idea. When you do know, however, that you could, but most likely won’t (don’t give me the nonsense that I can be anything I want to be), you have to get your shit together and deal with it. That requires both mental and physical toughness.

I mean, I’m not dependent on UNICEF food packets, I get my groceries from Tesco, but I still have to walk a mile to get there and carry the shopping on my back because I have neither a car nor someone to help me. It’s this undemonstrative everyday heroism that I value the most in others—and myself. I wouldn’t choose it, but since that’s what I got, I might just as well do it properly and with whatever grace and dignity I can put together.

An Anti-nursery Rhyme

Sleep is when

You’re awake, but unaware

Or comatose, and oblivious

Or dead, not a care

Sleep takes 

The pains

Out of all things

Who’d want to be up

Not me

Let us sleep

No flowers

By request

Why the Nuthouse Was My Best Holiday Ever

These days it’s the first anniversary of my nuthouse staycation. Despite the bad publicity these institutions suffer, my experience was that of the best holiday I ever had. There are so many reasons.

• You’ll never have more you-time. There was an obligatory programme to take part at for most of the day, but it was all focused on being with yourself. You have no worry in the world but to attend to you. That’s not what you can normally do in your life outside because you have other duties to prioritise.
• Everyone is nice to you. If everyone is already nice to you anyway, congratulations. It’s not my case. The psychiatric ward staff was obviously trained to treat the patients with extra care because they’re frail things. No one gives you weird looks when you’re doing something weird because, hey, you’re certified crazy and you can do whatever you have to, no questions asked.

My madhouse mandala

• You can safely contemplate suicide. Planning suicide is my favourite activity, which can be fully and safely enjoyed in the ward. Jumping out of the window is out of the question because the windows are barred and you can’t hope to hang yourself either because anything that could be utilised for the purpose will be confiscated. You can then indulge in your thoughts at peace.
• You discover your creative potential. I can hardly draw a stick figure but the regularly scheduled creative sessions unleashed my potential. Well, I have no potential, but I would enjoy splashing watercolours on the paper and colouring mandalas. You need to be careful with morbid motives in your art though because you might be taken aside for an individual consultation with a therapist.
• You’ll never have more crazy fun. Contrary to popular belief, there’s more hysterical laughter than hysterical crying in the ward. Occasionally it gets all mixed up when one patient is having a hysterical meltdown and another is having a fit of hysterical laughter at the former. It’s not mean really, it’s just a spontaneous reaction. One shouldn’t take oneself too seriously so as not to get too crazy.

Yoga Bragging Rights

You might think that the yoga mindset precludes bragging. Not for me. I won’t let any zen thought occlude my better judgement. I will abstain from arguing that you should do yoga if you like yourself (and especially if you don’t like yourself), instead I will provide a list of cool reasons to do yoga. All of them tested and approved by me (because I’m a self-proclaimed expert on pretty much anything. Also, did I mention recently that I’m a doctor? Just to be clear on this.).

My gear

The really good reasons to become a yogi are as follows:

• You get to wear cute yoga pants. I don’t mean the shabby yoga pants that you’re already wearing all the time, with a hole in the crotch area where the Asian kiddo labourers didn’t sew the seams properly. I mean real fancy yoga pants that you only use for actually doing yoga. I suggest getting several lengths, including short shorts for summer. Be cheeky.
• You get to terrify people. Simply strike a warrior one, two, three, and take it to a dancer from there. Alternately, if you’re feeling lazy, just collapse into a forward fold and start drawing yin and yang with your hands in the dust. People will start dialling 911 because they’ll think you broke. When they realise it’s perfectly normal, they’ll think you’re a kickass (or dumbass, depending on the people).
• You get to impress people with pearls of zen wisdom. Accept that it is what it is (Buddhist tautology). Choose to let go of that which doesn’t serve you. Know that the universe is for you and so is everything else. Please know that you’re not required to actually believe this shit. You only need to be able to say it with a straight face. Optimally, after letting such a pearl drop, join your hands in a prayer and bow your head slightly. Namaste (or, as I prefer to say, the darkness in me recognises and honours the darkness in you).