Today, I had a full blown panic attack at work, my fourth attack this past week. During the last one, my heart rate was at 147 beats per minute. I know because I coincidentally happened to be in a doctor's office when it kicked in. I couldn't measure today, but it was faster. (I also can't get the thought out of my head, picked up in my industrial recruiting days, that all pumps are pre-rated. Just how many thuds do I have left? And are there enough for the womanchild to be strongly on her own feet before I run out?) I was in a flop sweat. (For those old enough to remember or have studied this, think Richard Nixon in the first televised presidential debates with Kennedy.) Saturday, being the busiest day of my week, I had to soldier through it, and I don't think anyone knew how close I was to really breaking down. Ten minutes before I left, I couldn't stand it anymore and took a Xanax. Freaking good girl that I am, my prescription, that taken as directed would cover one month, has lasted seven months.
Well, my heart decided that it belonged in my chest. My respiration returned to normal, and the sweat eventually evaporated, taking my oh so carefully applied makeup with it. I felt okay. I forgot that I'd taken the Xanax to help me feel okay. When I got home, I fixed a dinner of cheese slices, carrots, spinach dip, and alleged chicken tenders. With that, I opened my bottle of wine that I bought last week.
That's where the stupid kicks in. Wine and Xanax are not a good combination, and feeling better doesn't necessarily mean you're okay. Frankly, I'm messed up. How pathetic is it that this is the best I've felt in a year? I'm together enough to check punctuation and run spell check. It's a pity blogs don't have a discretion check button, isn't it?
Oh, since discretion is beyond my command right now, and pathetic seems to be the modus operandi, what have you thought about the poetry? Personally, I think most of it's pretty bad, but there's some nuggets in it that are worth keeping and developing. It's been tough writing a poem a day, and getting no feedback has had me up in the air. Tonight, I don't have enough pride not to ask.