December 30th, 2009

Bun: falling bunny

The ongoing saga of attack_laurel in space...

My dream stuck with me so hard all day yesterday (despite spreading the wealth out to all of you) that after work, I went out to the local antiques mall to just relax a little (some people shop for clothes, I shop for vintage doll house bits).  In the middle of the store, one dealer had two of those Government-issued "Fallout Shelter" signs from the '60s that were unused, and pretty cool, but they made me look around and realize that the building I was in had no protection from a blast, and I was right by the flimsy roll-up doors to the loading dock, and...

Whoopsie, panic attack.

That hasn't happened in a very long time.  I mean, I get panic attacks all the time, it's part of my charm, but getting a panic attack from a dream association is very rare.  I think the last time it happened, I dreamt I was sitting on top of the St.Louis Arch, and a nuke went off, and I fell, and woke up just before I hit the ground, like you do.  I had such a strong panic attack I had to get up and watch the news channels for hours to assure myself that no attack was imminent.  That was almost eighteen years ago.

I had not discovered the wonders of Xanax then, so I had a pretty hard time of it.  Indeed, I didn't realize that what I was experiencing was panic attacks.  Later, when I started getting them almost constantly (as the end of my first marriage came closer), I recognized them as such, but the option of going to a doctor for treatment was out of the question.  My ex even accused me of getting them deliberately, in a bid for sympathy that he didn't think I deserved (usually after some imagined trangression on my part - I hate arguments, and I got yelled at a lot). 

Panic and I have a long relationship.  Most attacks are of the petit weird variety; a vague sense of impending doom that grows and makes me twitchy. Occasionally, I get the "large crowds freak me out" kind - that's what half a pill is for, and why I always keep a stash hidden in my purse.  The minor ones I've learned to control by distracting myself, but the ones I get when I'm trying to sleep need to be slapped around by drugs before they go away.

I hate those ones, because jerking awake with a feeling like I just realized I left the kettle on is exhausting, especially when it happens all night long.  So I love my little pills, though I don't take them very often (it goes in phases).  I love pharmecuticals, what can I say?  They make my life functional.

Anyway, I'm just saying, that even with taking one last night to help me sleep (and I did), I'm still a bit in the throes of a petit weirdness.  I'm actually wondering if the weirdness in due in part to revisiting the bad days of my first marriage, as I don't normally think about it much, but writing about it brought back the helpless and trapped feeling I had back then.  Who knows.  It doesn't normally bother me, but then I don't normally dwell on it, except to compare my current happiness and know I'm damned lucky to be where I am.

No matter what caused it, I might indulge myself and self-medicate with a trip to the thrift store this afternoon (my therapies are usually pretty cheap, assuming I don't find a ton of awesome stuff at the antique store).  If I find something good, I'll be sure to take pictures. 

If thrifting doesn't do the trick, I'm buying more glitter make-up for the party tomorrow.  I may be a fierce and progressive woman, but I loves me some glittery makeup (and high heels).

Oh, and I finished all the outlining on the jacket pieces last night.  700+ hours.  Now I start the fill.  *anticipation*