Anyhow, I had a panic attack last night.
A bad one.
My stomach even joined in for three hours of jolly good fun in and out of the bathroom.
It was simply terrible.
And exactly like the ones I used to have twenty years ago…
Exactly like the ones twenty years ago that crippled me and locked me in my room for ungodly stretches of time (years, people.)
I haven’t had one of these in probably nine years, the last time I had to up my medication to control the damned things.
Thankfully, there was a different reason for this setback. A stupid reason. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
I forgot to take my medicine yesterday morning… for the first time in 18 years.
Needless to say that won’t happen again.
But what really has freaked me out is the stark realization that even after all these years of relatively panic-maintained living, I am still so, so close to losing myself to the illness again.
One missed handful of pills and I’m back to that horrible place that scarred me so terribly.
So, yes. I hesitated even to write this.
Admitting to the world that you are still one sick puppy is daunting and a little stomach-turning.
But it’s cowardice well-deserved.