It was My Own Fault – Stupid Me…

Yesterday afternoon, I got so excited about my fast food Monday and my diet Cokes – like a kid in a candy store.  The excitement sent me over the edge, though.  I drank all three 20oz diet Cokes in short succession and would later regret it immensely.  It set into motion an anxiety attack of the highest order – the kind of my nightmares can only conjure.  The tingling of my body started as I sat at this computer – a sensation of confusion.  I continued to drink the caffeine laden Cokes like some heroin addict in the back alleys of New York – the slums where the homeless hang out and where the addicts shoot up.  Then my vision went all wonky and weird.  I shakily stood up and raced for the bed to lie down in my efforts to stop it before it got to going good.  My heart started to pound in my chest as the room began to spin.  My body felt all cold and clammy, and I curled up in my warm comforter.   My feet were freezing.   Online literature says anxiety attacks should only last 20 to 30 minutes, but mine belie that.  Mine last for an hour and a half to two hours.  I lay in the bed doing my best to calm down for two hours metabolizing all that caffeine I had just imbibed. I had to turn off all noise and stimuli.  Just the sound of Maggie stirring on the bed made my heart rate increase. I’ve began to experience severe dehydration, psychosis, and extreme paranoia during my attacks and that is disconcerting.  I was so worried that Charlie or dad would arrive and I would still be mid attack and acting weird.  This sends my paranoia reeling and can send me into a tailspin.  Dad will search my house for beer and Benadryl on such occasions because of my strangeness and it will send me over the edge with paranoia – extremely exacerbating my attacks.  It was my own fault.  I should’ve known better to drink all that caffeine when I was already experiencing lots of anxiety.  You live and you learn.  I just had to drink the Cokes, though. 

Charlie stopped by with supper last night.  He didn’t stay but just a minute, but he did take time to see Maggie which thrilled her soul.  He told me he loved me as he was leaving and that meant so much to me.  I had never heard him actually say that before in the open.  It was a very special moment for me after such a disconcerting two hours.  On the plate he brought was a huge portion of roast beef, macaroni and cheese, garden tomatoes, butter peas, homemade pickled cucumbers, stir fried and spicy baby asparagus, and cornbread.  It was delicious and I had just recovered from my attack when he arrived and was starving as usual after such an event.  My anxiety attacks give me a terrible case of the munchies.

Dad arrived around 9:30pm.  I was ready for my medications – my body spent from what happened earlier. I felt so exhausted. So tired.      

“Tomorrow is your Risperdal Consta injection,” dad told me last night. “Do you want me to call you in the morning to make sure you are up?”

“Yes,” I replied. “You never know with me.  I might be asleep or I could’ve been up since three.”

“Be sure to shower, shave, and put on nice clothes,” he told me.  “Don’t go out in public looking like a homeless person.”

Dad then asked me how I felt.  I told him of my earlier attack and how relieved I was it was over.  I asked him what he thought was making me have so much anxiety.  My suspicions are that it’s a medication issue, but I wouldn’t dare tell him this.  He is rabidly pro medication.  He had no answers despite being the pharmacist.  We talked of medications I could take to alleviate the anxiety, but they were all addictive like Xanax, Klonopin, or Valium.  Dad told me my psychiatrist would be wary in prescribing them to me with my past history of substance abuse.

“But you give me my medications and control them,” I said with an air of pleading in my voice. “Surely, he would trust you. Tell him you will make sure I don’t abuse what he prescribes!”

Dad shrugged his shoulders and said we would see when we went to see him tomorrow.  Dad then turned to look at me and said, “Cry.  Put on a good show.  Have an anxiety attack in his office.  Act crazy.  Stand up and pace the floor while we are in there. Then maybe he will prescribe something that helps.  Tell him you are miserable beyond reproach.”  I hated the thought of all that subterfuge, but it might just work.  I don’t know if I can conjure up tears or an attack on a whim, though.