WARNING:

Ok, so this is probably going to be all over the place and I don’t think I’m going to go back and “edit” this after I post it, just to see if my theory is working (we’ll find that out together later). So the grammar and language and punctuation and like, whatever the fuck you grammar Nazis go after, it might be a bit askew. Ha, define askew Brittanee!!! Biiiiitch!!!!! (that’s a 30’s something soccer mom who secretly drinks and probably has had one, maybe two, affairs when she was in Mexico and her husband still doesn’t know but instead of just bangin’ her man and getting some she’d rather tell everyone on Facebook when they misspell or type. We get it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Pro-Tip: Remember Brittanee, when I rant my bitchy voice is always Brittanee.)


I am literally in the throws of a panic attack….like, right now. I have shaky hands and a fucking HUGE darkness just sitting right here beside me; that darkness, that panic that makes you go from sitting on the living room floor, playing with your Bulldog (the cutest one ever, though….21366733_10155206157687732_4697558447119970858_o

but, I go from playing with her to running (not exaggerating) over to the couch to my husband and exclaiming “Something is wrong!!!!!” He confusingly says, “Well, what’s wrong?”…….

Uhhhhh, physically? Nothing……..

In my body and brain?? Let’s see:

Scenario 1: I’m dying!!! How can you not tell?!?!?! Do you not see the sheer panic on my face, which clearly indicates that I must be meeting with the Grim Reaper for tea this evening? Does my panic not tell you that, while perfectly normal in appearance and speech, I am clearly slipping away at this moment. On my death-bed. Knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door….

{My sweet husband, he does so well during what I can only assume is one of the most confusing experiences that exists. He is ready with the keys and my purse in hand if I utter, “We should probably go to the ER.” It’s happened more times than I’d care to remember, but he’s never made me feel stupid for going.}

Yet, I sit here trying to out-think a panic attack, trying to tell myself that there is no lump in my throat, there is no twitching in my eye, there is no chest pressure making me feel like I’m definitely having a heart attack and will be able to haunt Shane from the grave and say “I TOLD YOU SOMETHING WAS WRONG!”

[sarcastic chuckle]

FUCK YOU, THERE IS A LUMP IN MY FUCKING THROAT, THERE IS A TWITCH IN MY MOTHERFUCKING LEFT EYE, THERE IS SO MUCH CHEST PRESSURE THAT I MAY ACTUALLY BE HAVING A HEART ATTACK AND WILL HAVE TWICE PREDICTED MY DEATH WITHIN A FEW LINES OF A

It’s with great sadness that we announce…

BLOG POST. Sorry, I had to do it….I’m talking myself off a ledge here, I can make sick jokes.


Scenario 2: Could the panic be that I’m missing a stomach, small intestines, part of my esophagus, gallbladder, uterus, ovaries, cervix…..I think that’s it. And let me clarify that missing does in fact mean “no longer inside Cori’s body and is now missing.” So of course, when I panic, I immediately go back to the day that something was fucking wrong and I ended up admitted through the ER and returned home minus Uno Stomach-o. On that day, I felt a rush of blood, like a heart flutter, but repeatedly and non-stop. I felt sluggish and fatigued, I think I had a head cold. And playing on the floor tonight with Pudge, my heart fluttered and that was what started this panic attack.

“Wait, what? THAT is what this? Literally exerting energy causing your heart to flutter caused you to panic and think that same flutter meant another organ was failing?” Yes.

“That seems really stupid.” Yes, it is. But does that make what’s happening any less real? No.

“You’re fine, just calm down.” Oh ok, thanks Sally for your intricate medical advice you acquired from…..Macy’s? They tell people WHEN THEY’RE SHOT AND DYING to “just calm down”, so you’re not saying anything that’s helping me out here. All that says to me is “Holy shit, this lady is clearly about to die for no outwardly, visible reason.” Idiot.

A panic attack is like….how do I explain the scariest shit imaginable? IT’S THE SCARIEST SHIT IMAGINABLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It feels like you’re in a plane crash that just won’t end. Like 12 minutes ago the pilot was like “I think our plane is crashing……but it might take a while, so like…make some phone calls.” No, no….it’s like living that last scene in The Sixth Sense, where you find out Bruce Willis is a fucking DEAD PERSON! It’s that moment of “Ooohh, wha….oh my…this is some bullshit”, over and over and over and over and over and over and over again and again and again and again and again until your brain is like “Yeah, alright…chill.” It’s like that movie with that dude that played future Darth Vader in Star Wars….something Christaansen or…..anyways, it’s not like Star Wars, but that dude that played future Vader was in a movie where he had some kind of surgery and they thought he was asleep but his mind was awake the whole time. Like, WHAT THE FUCK?!?! That’s what anxiety feels like….like someone else logged in to their Facebook account on your phone and instead of logging out they just kept your phone and keep updating their status. It’s so fucking crazy, to think that my brain; my big, genius-level brain, that it would be able to just taken over like that by…….anxiety?

Panic attacks are enough to make you question if you’ve got a brain tumor and they just aren’t telling you because they don’t want to “burden” you with more; Or is that the panic attack making me think I have a brain tumor? Or what if my brain tumor is trying to tell my panic attack to tell me that I have a brain tumor? So, assuming I DO have a brain tumor and like I really am gonna die tonight (how freaky would it be if this is the last words I write, for real), I digress, but so I’m dying…..is that the reason for the panic attack? Is it because I don’t know what waits for me? The Great Beyond. Maybe my panic is not knowing if I get to be me after this life; do I get to remember all my amazing experiences?

{my children’s laughter, moments with Shane, the good times I had with my parents, laughing so hard I can’t breathe (and probably have a panic attack), the smell of a campfire, stealing cigarettes from my Mom’s secret stash, driving with the goddamn windows down and your hand out the window, so many things….}


Scenario 3: Maybe that’s what anxiety is…the NOT knowing more than the knowing. If you know you’re dying then you can be like “Hey, we’re all here together at Texas Roadhouse, on what appears to be karaoke night, so that I could tell you that I’m dying and I’m checking out on ____insert death date____.” But if you don’t know then every time you think it’s something fatal, you panic because you don’t have that “time”. No peanut shells on the floor time, no good ass dinner rolls, no incredibly loud table of MILF’s out on a Wednesday boozin’ it up; you don’t have that good-bye. I wouldn’t be able to tell Shane that he is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, his soul is so amazing it seeps through his skin. When he kisses me I feel like the only woman in the world and I fucking LOVE that; I wanna be able to have that again. I wouldn’t be to tell my children that while bringing them into this world was not ideal for me financially or personally or emotionally or budget-friendly or fucking unicorns and rainbows, it was two days in my life that I somehow remember every moment of. Despite pushing out human beings from my vag; I mean, that’s another topic, but Jesus……how do we actually do that?!?! They are annoying, irritating, money-sucking, question-asking, sloppy, loud! I, like, for real can’t stand them, I watch Dateline for tips. But somehow they are so fucking great, which I know if ’cause I popped them out or whatever, but I was a total shitbag at their age and they’re both super smart and in Honors classes…..so, I firmly believe that whopping your kids’ asses and telling them to “Shut the fuck up Jordan, we know Optimus Prime is a damn Autobot”, is totally the best way to raise them. So, suck on that perfect moms. And I wouldn’t be able to tell my bestest friend in the whole wide world how much I love her. I’ve been a bad friend, I’ve been a good friend, we’ve drifted, we’ve met back up. You’re in my life for good whether either of us like it, we’ve got too much dirt on each other and that can ruin a funeral. Graveside confessions are a thing, Google™ it. (I put that ™ thingy so I don’t sued) I don’t need Brandi rollin’ up talking about “Did you guys know Cori did ___________.” Don’t be like that B, stay classy. Wear all black, head-to-mutha-fuckin toe and keep them lips sealed sister! I wouldn’t get to tell my parents and my brother that I know we live different lives, we believe in different “gods”, we disagree in a lot of fucking ways, but I love you. You are in starring roles in a lot of my awesome memories, maybe “less is more” with us and that’s ok. Ya can’t spell family without “OH MY GOD, ___SO AND SO___ IS FUCKIN’ CRAZY”. Wait…there’s no “L” in that sentence. Ya can’t spell family without “OH MY GOD, ‘OL ___SO AND SO___ IS FUCKIN’ CRAZY.”

Boom.


Scenario 5: Is my panic because I don’t know what this “life” thing is. Deep I know, if you want to skip forward feel free…..no free thinkers need continue.

ok, we lost ’em….Like, why would “God” allow Us…Indivuduals….Me, specifically….aka. The Fuckin’ Human People Living This Shit to go through some of this? Who loses a stomach? Mother fucker, are you reading this correctly….A STOMACH!!! Like, the doctor said:

Doctor: "Hey, so yeah, I gotta take that out."
Me: "Take what out?"
Doctor: "your FUCKING STOMACH!"
Me: <an actual "What in the actual fuck?" face>

I mean, like……for real. If you were at a party and they were playing that “Tell one interesting fact about yourself” any of you that read this could be like “Holy shit you guys, gather ’round. This chick in Indiana had her stomach removed….like…Removed, man. Gone. The Whole Sha-bang.” You’d totally have the attention of anyone for at least 10, possibly 15 minutes. Try it. (Pro-Tip: If they ask, they attached the end of my esophagus, after removing some piece at the end that I guess is like turkey fat, but human? fat. Anyways, attached that to my small intestine and I eat like, every 2 hours, I puke, I wanna die most days….Awesome. Glad to be here.) Why would “God” allow me to experience the utter embarassment of a rape. I hate that word, I really fucking do. I hate saying it more than I hate the actual raping. But if we called it something different then those bitches that lie and accuse every guy that touches them of rape, then they’d have to say something super shitty out loud if they wanted someone to know. I hate those bitches more than the rape. I’d take the rape every like, 10 years, if it meant no bitches could lie about it; because they’ve ruined it for us. They really have. It needs a new name….

Brittanee: "Oh my God Jennifer, what is wrong with you lately?"
Jennifer "Brittanee, I had forced intercourse with cumming, with
some homeless man behind Panera. I was on fucking break."
Brittanee: "Oh my God, someone forcibly intercoursed you and came???
Jennifer: "Ok....Quiet down. People are looking. It's not true. I'm sorry
I lied Brittanee."
Brittanee: "Whatever Jennifer. Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

*if “Forced Intercourse w/ or w/out cumming” seems appropriate, email your Congressman. (Pro-Tip: A girl, woman, lady, is not proud of her rape. She won’t boast about it, she’ll inform to make sure other women are aware to be careful, but if you’re at the kegger hearing how Sheila got raped again, chances are……she a slut.) Why would “God” allow me to re-build myself only to watch it all burn to shit with a man as worthless as a limp dick? I understand I “chose” him, I am not pissed about the initial interaction; I’m pissed at the fact that “God” loves me SO much, so fucking much, that he would sit up on his throne or whatever and just watch my life crumble more and more and more and more every, every, every, every, every, every mother fucking, pissed off because you are still breathing in the same air as me, I hope you wreck you’re car on the freeway because at least I will get $250,000 you piece of shit, day. Why?? And then this “God” is praised for getting me through all of this……..the surgery, the forced intercouse w/ cumming, the trainwreck life……..he is supposed to get all the praise for all the mother fucking work that I put in!!!!!?????????!!!!!!!!!!!!! I did the goddamn work! I got up, on days when I would rather just never take a breath, I’d wake up and eventually I took a fucking breath, I DID! I raised two kids damn near by myself because he’d leave or be in training somewhere or be deployed or sign a contract to go overseas or just find any reason to leave, leave leave, leave, leave….I raised them. I DID!!!!! I went through stick after stick after surgery after surgery after test after test after results after results….my body. Me. My skin, my fucking tears and pain and hurt…..I DID THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I begged that mother fucker to come down to me while I was in the hospital, readying myself to have my stomach removed the next day and I called to him…..I cried for him….

No one came, no light appeared, no apparition in my bagel or Jesus on my Cheez-uutssss. I was trying to make it rhyme. No entity or being heard me when I truly needed something “bigger” to believe in. But you know what did show up and do what I asked? My fucking doctor and his amazing hands that held those tools and cut so precisely, that he learned to hold while at medical school which I’m sure he’s still paying for today because that shit is super expensive, I peeped it when I was healthy. Dodged that bullet, huh? Phew. He showed up and he used devices made in a lab by brilliant people; not one of them was “God”.


Scenario 4: But it could also be that something is actually wrong, like maybe I am sick and I should go see the doctor. I have been sick lately, my heart rate is really low, I keep getting this horrible right ear pain, then a migraine, then I ask Shane, repeatedly, to cut my head off and I promise I’ll leave a note so he doesn’t get in trouble, I just wanna like, ugh, I’m super tired, but I can barely sleep even though I feel like I just came off a weekend at Ozzfest (Ozzfest 1999 baby, best year ever!!), and not much if an appetite (no stomach jokes please, leave that to the professional), so when do you know if it’s a panic attack or a real-life “Rescue 9-1-1” situation occurring???

Exactly. While I know that NOW I’m still alive and fine, when I started this at approx. 9-ish I was in the “come down” of a panic attack. So, the best way I can describe what it’s like to experience a panic attack is: It’s taken me 4 hours to type out what I was thinking……..4 hours…….but I thought it about 20 seconds.

I will keep my word and not edit this, I want to be able to go back and read it and see if my theory worked….and it seems to. I thought that if I sat down and tried to explain in words, would it help me? Since I opened this laptop at 9, I haven’t felt my pulse once……and trust me, THAT is a big deal.

Cori

2 thoughts on “An Anxiety Attack: Real Time

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