An Ode to Panic Attacks* (*music not included) & a poem

I have on average one panic attack per day now.  Sometimes they come on gradually, like a rainstorm that builds over the course of an entire afternoon.  First, the air will go still and quiet ("That's weird, I was pretty happy a second ago and now shit feels kind of ominous...").  Then, the sky darkens as the clouds gather and build ("I mean, I could keep my day job, right?  It wouldn't be so bad, would it?  I was just overreacting - I don't have to make such a drastic life change - do I?!").  The temperature beings to drop and the winds pick up, blowing dust and trash and hay bales all over the--WHOA, wait a minute.  I apologize.  I assure you that wasn't me getting overly corny:  I watched R&H's State Fair (1945 musical remake) for the first time last night and I think the imagery just stuck.  (BTW:  If you haven't already, give it a watch!  It's charming, and not only if you have a painfully unrequited girl crush on Jeanne Crain like I do.  Unless, of course, you hate R&H, in which case this musical will literally make you suicidal.  I mean it.  LITERALLY.)  *Ahem*, ANYWAY:  the wind!  ("MY LIFE IS OVER!")

Sometimes, the panic attacks come on like one of those freak thunderstorms, where one moment the birds are singing and the next you're drenched.  And that one goes something like this:  "AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!"

And now, a poem.  I wrote this about ten months ago, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I re-read it today, knowing how true it's become.  When I wrote it, I don't think I had any clue that it would one day become autobiographical.  Of course, I still have to live through the most painful part - telling most of my family, and listening to the disappointment, the fear, the anger, the confusion, the hurt in their voices.  I'm incredibly lucky that the few people thus far privy to my plans have been overwhelmingly supportive; or, at the very least, haven't attempted to dissuade me.

Without further ado, I give you:

-- 

Selfless

If I live twice, how can it be

That I live not at all? You see

I live a double life, which means

Each life only half lived must be.

My body forty hours sits

Inside an office, windowless

I read, I think, I read, I write

And I make smalltalk, ever-trite.

And yet my mind, consistently

Imagines where I'd rather be

What I would do if I could choose –

What I must risk, what I might lose.

I often wander, mentally

To coffee shops, towns by the sea

To old theátres, used bookstores

To windows on the thirtieth floor.

I'd quit my job, I'd pack my things,

I'd leave this place, see what life brings—

I'd take up with a whole new set

With artists, writers, dancers, chefs.

My friends, on the one hand, concerned

Would sit me down, would take their turn

To spout the error of my ways

To point out how much working pays

They would lament how rash I'd been

They'd espouse patience, calmness, Zen

They'd recommend I contemplate,

I reconsider my hasty fate.

My family would be shocked, appalled

They'd scream, they'd wring their hands

They'd bawl, they'd ask me why, repeatedly,

And yet with no retort agree.

At first I'd stoically reply,

Patiently sitting, hands at my sides,

That this was my decision to make

That it concerned my life, my fate.

I'd say to them, I want your love

But not if with conditions it comes

You must simply love me for me

And that includes this long journey.

This journey will change me head to toe

I may become one you'll not know

We may have to start over again

Relearning how to be family, friends

Then sleep on it, they'd all implore

For goodness' sake, whatever more

You ask of us, give this one thing:

That you will wait until morning.

And that, the moment I relent

Will mean more than each hour I'd spent

Planning, plotting, building up

The dream is over, the jig is up.

--