Blindsided

 The thing I don't remember is how sneaky anxiety attacks are because I never see it coming until it's there and I desperately need to run away, to get where it's quiet but my heart races and then the tears flow and won't stop and then thank God I remembered I tucked the meds in my purse this morning but when will they kick in retreating to a bench on the edge of the grass to stop, to breathe, take a breath and tell myself this will pass, it's OK, it will pass, condemning myself for something I can't control and hating that this happens when I'm only trying to get my life back.

The exercise in a workshop at the writer's conference in my hometown was to write a stream of consciousness paragraph starting with "The thing I don't remember..." It was fresh in my mind, so of course that's where my mind went. The morning sessions were a blur, still coming down off an attack, not wanting to be there, not wanting to be near people, not wanting to be anywhere. Where did this one come from? Don't they know I don't appreciate being blindsided?

As I sit here and write to make sense of things, which usually works great for me, I realized that likely what set off the lovely anxiety attack was my expectation of myself to be perfect. I've had more than one therapist tell me I'm harder on myself than anyone else ever could be. While I can allow a friend the grace to be anxious or imperfect or flawed, that's a no-no for me. It didn't take more than one therapy session to understand where that came from. Enter my childhood, but that's a blog for another day, and a bloody long one.

I contemplated leaving at noon, calling it quits, admitting defeat, but my ego, my determination wouldn't let me . By the end of the morning sessions, I was hungry enough to eat the ass end out of a pig. Then they announced lunch would be 15 minutes late. Fifteen minutes turned into 30. I grabbed the box with my name on it and headed to the most secluded place I could find, because the anxiety was punching through the meds and I needed to bolt. The sandwich, which almost tasted like pig ass, was inedible. So I settled for the bag of potato chips that was really hard to chew while crying (thanks anxiety for another uncontrollable crying jag) and the cherry tart dessert and the Pepsi I grabbed from a vending machine. Still starving, I made my way back to the vending machines, but the one with actual food-like items wouldn't take my debit or credit card. Really, Universe? I know you hate me, but could you cut me some slack today? I just want a Snickers bar.

The afternoon sessions were better. The first one was quite interactive which helped focus my mind on writing prompts and exercises. Yet I still couldn't wait to leave and I ducked out 15 minutes early at the last workshop. I got in my car and it dinged at me that it was low on gas. Of course it fricking was. Ooh, Safeway has gas AND wine. The pump wouldn't take my Safeway card. Of course it wouldn't. At this point I was beyond caring. Washington State got enough of my money in the past 9 years, what's a few dollars more? The cashier inside the store was a bumbling dolt and I was one straw away from this camel's back being broken. I didn't wake up this morning planning to be a bitch, but it was in the cards by then.

Never has a questionably clean room in a small motel looked better. I dug out the pizza leftovers from last night and nuked them, poured a glass of wine, and plopped.

The glorious quiet of nothing but the running A/C, a few quick texts with my sister who knows anxiety, a text to check on my dog (no she didn't answer, she doesn't have thumbs), and a text to the Boxer rescue about a possible match have all helped calm the storm that roiled inside me today.

With the brain fog of today lifting, I'm recalling last night's author Q & A, which was outstanding. Garth Stein, who wrote The Art of Racing in the Rain, was one of the authors there. If you haven't read it, do. Or at least watch the movie. He was engaging and entertaining and mentioned more than once that he isn't a people person and has trouble in social situations. There are a lot of writers who fit that bill. These are my people! Before the talk started, I was wandering around looking at the books for sale and raffle items when I heard, "JILL!" I about jumped out of my drawers. It was my dad's cousin, Mary Kay. It was good to see a friendly face, and we chatted and ended up sitting together for the presentation. I should have known I'd run into someone I knew. It's a very small town.

Tomorrow I'll have breakfast with my dear former grade school principal and 6th grade teacher and now friend, then brave I-5 south to get home to my dog. With any luck, it'll soon be dogS when I find the right fit for me and DD. A couple of dogs will certainly stamp out my anxiety. Until I sign up for the next writer's conference.