Yes, I am Still Alive

I realize it has been a month since I posted. Believe me, I realize this. Writing is my SSRI, and without it, well, go off your Lexapro or Welbutrin or whatever, go off the Xanax, while you're at it, and you'll have a fair idea of how the last month has gone. So, yes, I'm still alive, but only if you take the more basic meanings of the word "alive."

I shall tell you a story.

This last Sunday, my housemate-landlords hosted a party at the house. It's their house, and they gave me several days' notice. They did everything right. Remember that, because this will get messy. They told me I was welcome to join in, if I were so inclined.

I was not so inclined. I don't do the social thing well with people I know. I'm better off somewhere else if it's people I don't know. I know this, though, so I planned to be somewhere else at the time of the event.

I did not, however, plan for a panic episode to hit during liturgy Sunday morning. I did not expect to be barely able to function by noon. I did not anticipate falling asleep for two hours when I arrived at home.

I woke up to unfamiliar voices in the hallway outside my door. That's not a good sound, I thought to myself. There were several knocks at the front door in the next half hour, and the volume kept increasing. Almost immediately I was back in panic mode. My heart was pounding audibly. I was shaking. It was just like the day the bishop came last month, except then I had a place to hide.

Finally, the voices were all congregated in the dining room, rather than drifting randomly throughout the house. I bolted. There was a lady at the door, greeting a late arrival, and she gave me this look. Granted, I was barely holding off the panic, so my perception was probably dreadfully mistaken, but the look on her face said, You do not belong here. I dodged out the door without a word.

My car was blocked in, of course. Curses! Foiled! It was 5:30 at night. The temperature was in the 40's, and while I did have my warm coat on, the zipper is broken. An open jacket does not do much. It was dark, I was on foot, and I was not in a particularly good emotional state. I needed a safe place, and I needed it as soon as possible. I could walk to Fr. Patrick's house; I could walk to my Godmother's house. Either one would be safe. Or, I could go to Starbucks. I had a block to consider where I was headed.

Thirty minutes later, I was in Starbucks with a cup of herbal tea in one hand and my phone in the other. I spent the next hour or so not texting any of the five people I considered texting and becoming increasingly irritated at myself in so doing. I needed help, and I knew it. I knew if I texted Counselor, she'd be able to reel me back in. I had a hunch that if I contacted any one of a few possibilities from church, making it suitably clear what a wreck I was, I would shortly find myself at someone's house. I was pretty sure a text to E would produce the same result.

Of course, I did none of this. Instead, I sat there, shooting myself in the foot each time I flipped the phone shut. I needed help, but I could not manage to ask for it. I knew exactly who to ask, and I had three back-up plans. But I had myself convinced that it was better to just push through it on my own. What is that? I told myself that no one needed to be bothered with the ancient history that got dredged up that day. Better to just let the voices scream at me. I guess I figured I pretty much deserved it anyway. So, when I got home, I was not much better off than when I had left. The panic had passed, but I was still a mess.

What in the world is wrong with me?

Counselor said last night that I took a few steps back on Sunday. No kidding. It's not the end of the world, though. I just need to get turned back in the right direction.