Portrait of an Anxiety Attack

Personal emergency today, friends. Dropped my bank account down to almost nothing. Freaking the fuck out over it, I am.

Waaaay too much money has left my possession today. $1600 for this . . . almost $6000 balance on a credit card . . . I ain't broke yet, but I'm panicking. Welling from deep within my soul . . . The panic threatens to wash me away.

I can't catch my breath, for I am bordering on hyperventilation. My pulse is fast and weak. I am as fidgety as a Ritalin-withdrawn 8-year-old boy. I have an overwhelming sense that I should be ducking and looking over my left shoulder. I'm maintaining a low-grade sweat. My neck and shoulders are locked. I hear my own blood pressure in my ears, a tsunami of sound. I sense a large shadow approaching. I am running my hands through my hair spasmodically, alternating between grabbing and tugging handfuls trying to bring my mind back home and all but gouging my scalp with my fingernails because I've lost most tactile sensation. I am nervous, angsty, afraid. I want to arm myself. I want to back into a corner so that nothing can get me from behind, so that I can stop spinning around, flailing my arms, trying to locate the the invisible threat that I can sense is damn near upon me.

Something wicked this way comes.

THIS is what happens when I am poor. THIS is what happens when I know that I have no resources. THIS is what happens when I know good and well that I am not able take care of myself.

Not only had I thought I'd outgrown this, it's never come on this severely this quickly. This is anxiety in its purest, most cleanly distilled, most primeveal form. This is panic barely held in check by sheer force of will.

This is the lion at the mouth of the cave.

This is the howling winter wind drowning the cries of the starving child.

This is the Inquisitor's knock at my chamber door.


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