Sorry I Hate You Sometimes

The other night as I was going to sleep, I was reading through Facebook and came across a contest.  This contest was hosted by UW Credit Union, and they wanted you to reply to the question: What is your favorite college memory?

Now college was a very positive experience for me.  I met some of my best friends ever, got to travel to some amazing places, and had some very unique experiences.  I learned a lot more going to college than just accounting and marketing strategies.  I learned how to use a hair straightener (seriously, I used to think the girls would put their heads on an ironing board and use the iron to straighten their hair).  I met people who were genuine and honest and positive.  I learned how to operate a bus with a wheelchair lift; how to collaborate with a team; and how to pay my bills (I had only ever had my cell phone bill before).  My college friends introduced me to social media and other cool things on the internet.  They helped me improve my writing and social skills, and more importantly, they helped me with my social skills.  I met my best friends in college, and I had a lot of great memories and experiences.

That night, though, I couldn't think of one positive experience or memory.  Instead, my brain automatically and intensely decided that every negative experience, every moment of insecurity and embarrassment, every doubt I had in college was everything.

I thought about my experience in the dorms, where I met Sally and Whitney, two wonderfully amazing friends.  All I could think about was my next door neighbor fighting with her boyfriend, the guy the sophomores dragged to the elevator where he proceeded to empty the copious amounts of alcohol out of his stomach, the time fucktards gave me shit on the way to a dance, or the fifty other disturbing moments in the dorm.  I didn't think about the birthday party my new friends gave me.  I didn't think about Cinco de Mayo margaritas or the time I had 5 bottles of Captain Morgan in my fridge and nothing else.  I certainly didn't think about the time Ryan and I manned Jitters and we had to share the step stool, which still required us to use the counter sometimes.

I tried to remember the great experience I had with Forensics, but I couldn't.  I thought about the times Ben and I butted heads, the time Jerkface kept intruding on my space to fuck with me, or the times I got chastised for talking a little too in-depth about sex (although they learned that I stopped when Janine started talking about birth).  I couldn't stop thinking about the excruciating loneliness I felt on a lot of trips, always feeling like the odd man out.  What didn't come to mind were the social get-togethers like Homecoming events, Halloween parties, Christmas parties, Sorber happenings.  I loved dinners, jokes, quotes, car rides, practices, tournaments, and even driving 3 hours in the wrong direction.  I got to travel and see places and try new things.  Amazing experience right?  Even the night Shauna and I got puked on and the new guy tried to kill me with air freshener (I had severe allergic reactions before my nose surgery).  Even THAT was an interesting experience.  I loved forensics and all my forensicating friends, and I knew they at least loved me sometimes.  Then why did I keep thinking about being blamed for making someone cry (I honestly did not do anything)?

I thought about all of my classes, the apartments and houses I lived in, my trip to Ireland, my friends, my professors, jobs, and other activities, but the negatives of everything were the only memories I could recall.  That is how I go through life.  I'm sad, lonely, angry, embarrassed all the time.  My mind takes all of my experiences, all of my good memories, all my love.  It takes them and shakes them around like a kid with an etch-a-sketch, and all my good memories fall away like the metal flakes, leaving only the memories that got jabbed into the mind and will not shake loose (if you've ever had an etch-a-sketch, you know what I mean).

When I thought about these things, it made me hate everyone, and it made me lonely.  For those 20 minutes, I hated everything and lay there in despair wondering why no one cared about me.  I wanted to lash out with fists and tongue.  I wanted to scream and rage.  I cried.

Fortunately, I was able to remind myself that my friends, my true friends, have shown me friendship and love.  How often have I asked for comfort or company and been denied?  Almost never, and always for good reason.  I've been to their weddings; I've met and played with their children.  They have invited me to parties and asked for my company.  My good friends have included me in their lives because they love me as I love them.

Unfortunately, I am not always able to talk my brain down.  Sometimes I spend days, even weeks like this.  I haven't spoken to one specific friend for months because I can't remember why I'm friends with her.  I have avoided friends and family because I have been overwhelmed thinking they dislike me or they're not good people.  I have inclinations to tell them off, even though I have never shared my fears or feelings.  Sometimes, I do end up lashing out.  Sometimes, I give in to the thoughts and the Irish whistle starts shooting off thoughts that should not be mine.  Sometimes, I hurt people with those words, and most of the time, I hurt myself.

So this is an apology to everyone I have ever met.  I'm sorry I hate you sometimes.  I'm sorry if I have ever lashed out at you for no reason.  I'm sorry I doubted your friendship.  I'm sorry I hurt you.  I wish I could tell you that I'm working on it.  I wish I could heal the wounds I have given you.  I wish I could tell you everything going on in this chemically fucked up brain of mine so you would know and be able to tell the rest of me that my brain is lying.  So I'm sorry.

Giving the Bolder Holder the Cold Shoulder

I haven't worn a bra since June 3rd. You're probably thinking, why do I care about Brandi's underwear? Well, I will tell you.

I took the girls out of confinement because the weight of them was pushing down on my chest and stomach, making the acid reflux way worse. But that's not the only reason I continue to let the girls run free.

When I first started out, I was VERY self-conscious. First of all, my bosom is pretty noticeable. Like I'm carrying around two large hedgehogs on my chest. The peaks also have a tendency to announce their state of mind about as often as a little man's little man during puberty. Like me, they seem to have a mind of their own and don't always take into consideration other people's feelings. They just pop up, and ain't shit you can do about it. Another thing I was not used to was the bounce and sway. Gravity is my girls' worst enemy, and it has taken its toll on them. Every little sway gave them reason to jiggle like a bag of jello.

The fun-bags were extraordinarily sensitive as well. They've been confined in their cells for about 20 years, and like most prisoners, one of the first things they wanted to do was check out the world outside but they were a little scared by the new stuff. I couldn't hug anyone except CJ because it felt too intimate. Seriously, my little brothers got side hugs and my friends got the awkward bubble back step. The good thing is, I doubt my brothers or friends thought I was behaving oddly because I'm often awkward and often dislike touching.

Then there is the fact that it is summer, and that means thinner clothes, lighter colors, and more sweating. There is no way to make my mountains into mole hills with a thick sweater, and trust me when I say that boob sweat is grosser when the armor doesn't take the brunt of it. The light colors of summer really need no explanation after that.

A few things really comforted me during the beginning of the Great Boobie Liberation. The first was a get-together with some friends, where I confessed that I had not been able to wear a boulder holder for a while, and all the ladies said they had no idea I was bra-less. CJ had confessed two days prior that it was extremely noticeable. The day after my meeting, though, I read an article about a high school senior who had not worn a bra for months and got sent to the principal's office because her male teacher felt it was inappropriate and distracting, despite the dark sweater and nipple stickers. The combination of the conversations and the article made me fully understand that it's really not me or the freed girls that were inappropriate, it was the thoughts and sexualization from "others" that was to blame for some of my insecurities. I am not responsible for the comfort of those around me, especially people I don't know, and the comfort of being loose far outweighed the discomfort of thinking people knew and judged. So there, Judgey McJudgerpants and all the little Judgelings. Another great comfort was a study done in France. The premise of the study was to find out if bras helped fight gravity. Please keep in mind, as I do, that this test was only done once in one area of France with a small (ish) sample group for a short time period. They concluded that bras are not helpful and may actually caused atrophy in the breast muscles that should keep them moderately behaved. About half the group reported stronger chest muscles and perkier puppies. As a curious person, I wanted to know if my headlights would develop into high beams.

Of course, up until the jug jockey became detrimental, I didn't want to ditch the bitch. It kept the cha-chas in check, protected them, and gave them a platform to stand on. Also, society says I gotta, and I already have issue with many social norms. Why would I subject myself to more ways for people to judge? (Seriously, middle school girls already made me bashful of the bongos.)

Third, my therapist and I discussed my situation. She authenticated my feelings and helped me realize that I am allowed to put up boundaries, even if I had not before. My body, my feelings, my decisions.

I realized yesterday that I have been without a bra for about 7 weeks. Seven weeks without pressure on my stomach; seven weeks without straps digging into my shoulders; seven weeks without looking for the damned thing because THAT is NOT where I put it last night, damn it. I have also come to realize that I may never have to buy another brassier again. I will never have to walk into Victoria's Secret only to end up frustrated and tired from trying to find a vessel big enough to fit my torpedoes. I will never have to spend $60 on a piece of clothing that only one other person sees (yes, $60 because the people who make the $14 bras don't make them in my size). I have Emancipated the Mammaries, and I am not going back.

I have realized that I don't think about it nearly as often as I did in the beginning either. I don't hug the girls to keep people from staring all the time. They don't get as excited as they used to, and I don't shy away from hugs like I did. I'm still conscious that they are there (where else would they be?), but the thought of what others are thinking doesn't give me nearly the same amount of anxiety as it used to. I don't know if the rack is getting firmer or movin' on up, but I do know I feel better about releasing the hounds.

Sorry, Not Sorry

Funny thing, this.  After yesterday's breakdown, I'm feeling footloose and fancy free.  After spending the entire day at my desk doing nothing but thinking and crying and researching (no, I did not have work to do because my classes are just starting), I went home.  My darling partner changed up all of our well-thought out plans to make lasagna and cannolis and made me tomato soup and the most perfect grilled cheese sammiches ever in the history of grilled cheeses.  Dear CJ even put up with my scattered hyperness (a side effect of an anxiety-wrought day) and would not even let me wash dishes (although I had no intention to).  We spent the evening snuggling with the puppies and watching movies.

I realized, though, that I may have insulted you, my friends and family, in yesterday's post.  I want to explain right now that I am not apologizing for putting my thoughts there and showing you what is in my mind.  These are thoughts I deal with quite frequently or at least very similar thoughts.  I do apologize if you felt hurt by that.  I know who my friends are most of the time.  I know that if you are reading this, you probably don't hate me or you googled me.  If you googled me, well, I don't like to hide who I am.  I am actually a great person who, like a good portion of the American population, has a mental disability.  I cannot be ashamed or hide that fact.  I must be true to myself.

Today is a completely different from yesterday.  I'm feeling my normal, perky self.  I don't hate the idea of putting my thoughts down, and I certainly am not doubting everything.  I have an interview today with a company that seems amazing, and I'm excited and nervous.  Preparation is my motto today, so that's what I'm doing now.  Thanks everyone.

Happy Birthday...

Every year I get excited about my birthday.  What's not to love?  I get presents and I get extra attention.  Unfortunately, today, I am experiencing a rather volatile funk, making my birthday just awful.  CJ and I drove to work due to the extreme cold, and I was actually happy and excited.  I wanted to be at work.

Shortly after I go to work, though, my thoughts went from hopeful to dreadful.  Why isn't anyone saying happy birthday?  Does anyone actually care?  Is everyone just posting on my wall because Facebook told them to?  Einsteins gave me a free breakfast sandwich coupon, but really all I want is a bagel; can I just get a bagel?  God, why do I always expect my birthdays to be great?  Remember when you found out your friend died the night before your birthday?  Remember all the other shitty birthdays you've had?  Like the year your (now ex) boyfriend bought you a Snoopy Dogg CD and talked a friend into lending him some money but it was only enough for a small bottle of MadDog 20/20?  How about the year after that where my (also ex) boyfriend and I went to HIS friend's apartment to play D&D, which didn't even happen because I had to build a character with the other six people at the table and we left at midnight to go to the bar and then my (ex) boyfriend accused me of flirting with his friend?  Or our combined birthday party a few days later where he and his friends hit up the strip club (and no one even asked if I wanted to go) and then he joined me for one drink at the bowling alley before going to the club and then he stayed on the outskirts all night?  Shit, I have a meeting at 10 with ADA, but I'm sitting here crying over the shit.  Should I reschedule?  NO, gotta suck it up.

During the meeting: They're going to deny my request and I'm just going to be crying like a little bitch the whole time.  Why did I think this was a good idea?  All I've managed to do is create more anxiety for myself and create an even bigger problem with my boss.  On top of that, now the GM knows I'm crazy because he was cc'd so that kills any thought he might support me in my career aspirations.  Why can't I be normal?  Am I even sick?  Of course I'm sick.  I get panic attacks, don't I?  Yes, but what if it's just me working up the frenzy?  What if I'm really just self-centered and narcissistic?  What if this is just all in my head?

All Day: I should just go home.  My back hurts, I can't stop crying, my eyes hurt, my chest hurts.  No.  Gotta suck it up.  Need to save that vacation time.  Need to work through this.  All you're going to do at home is stare at the tv anyway.  You should just use this time to be at work.  Wanna work on your blog?  Blogs are good.  Blog makes me angry.  People don't want to read this anyway.  Why am I even here?  Nobody cares beyond a cursory thought.  Facebook told them it was your birthday.  Hell, your brother called you the day before.  He doesn't even care enough to put the correct date in his phone to remind him.  But it was better to talk to him yesterday because of things.  But still, why did he call me with only five minutes to talk?  Surely I deserve more than five minutes of time that isn't devoted to running around getting the girls ready for something or coming home from somewhere.  Meh, whatever, we didn't really get along well as kids anyway.  I don't know why it matters.  Really?  My dad texted me?  Well, there's a first for everything.  Seriously?  A text?  My brother and his family get a PS4 for Christmas, and I get text messages.  I am not one to give a shit about material objects, but that is a serious imbalance.  Wait a second, why do I even care?  I'm an independent woman who doesn't need stuff to fill her life.  Fuck, though, it's unfair.  Anyone can see it's unfair.  Why I do berate myself for wanting at least some equality?  I deserve that.  But why?  Why do I deserve that?  Did I do anything special?  Am I special?  Not really.  But then again, I haven't done anything to deserve to not be treated fairly.  Have I?  Maybe I have.  What did I do?  Nothing!  I did nothing.  I moved in with my mom and it was healthier and better and all of my relationships are better because of it.  If I had stayed there, I probably would have been worse off.  Why doesn't anyone love me?  People love me, god damn it.  My wonderful boyfriend loves me and tried to cheer me up all day.  My mom loves me.  She can't always be around every birthday because of work, but she sent me messages, she took me to dinner, she helps me in anyway she can.  Shit, I should go talk to someone.  No one wants to hear my shit.  Fuck it, I need to talk to someone.  Fuck, fuck, fuck, why did I even go talk to her?  She gave me a card, yes, but it's a pity card.  She got it because she tolerates me.  That's not true, she like me.  She likes everybody.  Yeah, I'm really not that special.  Go sit down and stop making this woman uncomfortable.  Go deal with this on your own.  Nobody cares.  Just wait out the day until you can go home and snuggle with CJ and the dogs.

The noise never stops in my head today except the couple of times I seemed to have "spaced out".  By spacing out I mean, I'm pretty sure I sat and stared at my computer for more than five minutes without thought a few different times today.  I definitely don't have the ability to eat too much solid food right now considering the anxiety has got me going around in circles.

Anxiety mixed with depression sucks.  Thank God I'm not suicidal, though.  This day could have been worse.

Me Versus Anxiety

Having Anxiety isn't all fun and games, you know.  There are lots of symptoms other than just having panic attacks.  The meme here list just a few symptoms that are associated with Generalized Anxiety.  For me, a lot of this seems to be true.

I get unpredictable bouts of rage and irritability.  Ask my mother.  Unfortunately, my mom has gotten this symptom aimed at her more times than I can count.  I theorize that it's because I have always turned to her when my stress and anxiety are highest.  My mom knows me extraordinarily well.  She knows that I never mean to insult her, I'm not snapping at her, and she knows how to make me feel better (most of the time).   She also knows when to tell me that I am being a bitch and I need to calm the fuck down.

Nit-pickiness is a weird one for me.  I am a natural nester and messy.  I have a nasty habit of getting organized and then not keeping up with said organization.  I am also very picky about weird things: toilet paper, organizing dishes before starting them, folding, food, etc.  There are a lot of things that people do for me and then I go back and "fix" them.  Usually with a pathetic, "I'm sorry, but this will drive me nuts if I don't "fix" it."  It makes me very uncomfortable when people change things on me.  For example, someone used to use my decorative pint glasses (fully functional but on display) rather than find a cup in the cupboard.  I got so mad about that, yet it is inconsequential.

Anyone who knows me knows I tend to talk fast and stumble over my words, usually in the form of "losing a vocabulary word" as I call it, almost every day.  A great example is the word giraffe.  It's not a word you would think anyone would use very often or forget, yet I can think of 3 instances where I have had to explain the giraffe because I could not put the word to the picture.  If you've ever watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer, you would have a clue as to how I speak sometimes.  I will often make up words by combining others, I'll use sounds and gestures to help others understand, and quite often, monologues end with, "You know what I mean?"  Fortunately, people tend to write this off as one of my idiosyncrasies, but it's often a huge embarrassment for me.  It's also probably why I'm so nit-picky about spelling and grammar.  (Did you see what I did there?  I thought it was funny.)

The last two tend to be symptoms tend to be "coping mechanisms."  Yeah, I know they are bad.  One thing my family knows is when I'm not talking, I'm really tired, around strange new people, or someone in the general vicinity has pissed me off.  That's usually when they start questioning my health as well.  My brother noticed that he gets "zoned" whenever he tries to give me a lecture that I deem none of his damned business.  He HATES it, and he knows the second my eyes gloss over, nothing gets through that wall.  These are also the times I am most likely to think my more destructive thoughts or I'm mulling over the events leading up to the problem at hand.

There are other symptoms, of course, like insomnia, overthinking, GERT, fearfulness in crowds, etc.  Obviously, I cannot speak for everyone because I am still getting to know myself in context of this illness.  It's a very difficult process for a lot of different reasons.

Reason #1: How do I know if the things I experience are real or twisted by my mind?  I still don't know completely what my all symptoms are or how much they dramatize my true feelings.  There are the obvious times, of course, like when someone has done nothing wrong and I snap on them or when I feel numb all day.  But there are other times when I get irritated because another damned pedestrian just walked right in front of my bike without looking or a "biker" flies through a stop sign with other vehicles at the intersection.  These are understandable irritants, but I question the intensity of the feeling and even whether I really have a reason to be irritated.

Reason #2: When did the symptoms start, and what historical events in my life are a result of or directly affected by my illness?  This ties right back in with the first question.  I can think things I did as a child/non-adult: exploding on people, zoning out in classes, etc.  When I was in sixth grade, I slammed my pencil into a boy's hand for messing with my book.  Did I over-react because I was young and crazy-irritated, or did I do that because the chemicals in my brain made me more angry and I focused that anger into violence?  (He's fine!  He just has a pencil mark on the back of his hand forever.  At least he'll never fuck with someone's book again.)  Even though I was officially diagnosed with GAD in 2014, I know I had clusters of anxiety attacks when I was about 21 (so 2004 ish?).  I also know that I was suffering from depression and anxiety when I worked at Walmart and throughout college.  How far does it go back?  Did I have anxiety throughout grade school and no one noticed?  Or was I just a very smart Irish-German girl?  With a spotty symptom list, there is no way to piece together much.  I feel like I'm putting together a puzzle but I'm only allowed to see a few of the pieces and some of the pieces have faded with time.

Reason #3: When am I coddling myself, when am I helping myself, and when am I being too hard on myself?  You know when you break or twister your leg, they usually give you crutches.  They are generally accompanied by a strict warning to use them only as long as you need them because you have to build the strength back up in the injured leg.  Anxiety does this too.  If you make excuses, for your behavior, it can make you think it's okay, and you do it again.  If you punish yourself, though, you end up damaging your psyche with more guilt and stress, which makes the anxiety worse.  I need the nice, happy medium, but that's difficult to measure.  The only tried and true method I know of to validate my feelings and actions is to ask others.  Unfortunately, comparing yourself to others can also lead to increased stress and anxiety.  Oh, and my friends like to tell me this.  Usually, my reaction is a big, fat, "Fuck you."  I mean, seriously?  How am I supposed to correct my thoughts and focus on the correct feelings when I can't figure out what they are?  Which leads to:

Out of all of the problems that anxiety is, the most frustrating part is all of the Catch 22s of anxiety.  For example, if I don't get enough sleep, my anxiety flares up.  If my anxiety flares up, the insomnia flares up, which again flares the anxiety.  Another example, if I'm having a bad day and my friend invites me over,  I generally cancel, which I always feel guilty about, again amplifying the anxiety, making me not want to do more social things.  Often times, powering through a symptom can make it worse later, but then again, nursing the symptom can make it worse as well.  Catch 22s all over the place, and my hand/eye coordination ain't what it used to be.

They ain't no doubt about it: Anxiety is a bitch trying to make you its bitch.  Truthfully, any illness is, mental or otherwise.  The trick is to try to stay positive and take care of yourself, no matter how painful it is.  That being said, please comment below if you have other symptoms from your anxiety, if you've developed a good coping mechanism for any of these symptoms, or even if you just need someone to talk to who understands a little bit.

Lessons in Shopping

With the holiday season upon us, I have been shopping like a mad woman.  A normal shopping trip for us usually involves at least one curious person or two, but this one was exhausting in more ways than one.

Brownie and I took the boyfriend to work (8 am) and ate breakfast before starting our day.  From there, we hit up Target #1 (There are 4 within the area that I go shopping in).  We scoured the store for gifties, I overheard many children asking their parents why I had a dog in the store and most parents explaining that "we can't pet that doggie because it's working," or, "you have to ask to pet that dog."  Both are acceptable answers to anyone's questions, especially when the person with the service animal is not nearly as understanding as I often am.

One particular dad had two young ones with him and was having a difficult time explaining to his children why I had a dog in the store, so I decided it was time to speak up.  I explained to the kids that I was sick (I did not elaborate) and that Brownie knew what to do in case of a flair up.  They, of course, had lots of questions, and I tried to answer them all.  (What can I say?  I love well-behaved, curious children almost as much as I love dogs.)

When the curiosity had be sated and the family left, a woman came up to me and thanked me for helping educate them.  She didn't even know them or me, but she seemed very happy about the situation, and, of course, brightened my day even more.

We went a few other places (Mall #1, Target #2, Kohls...).  It was about 4 pm, though, and Mall #2 presented a problem.  I was waiting for a personalized gift at one of the mall kiosks when something scared the shit out of Brownie.  I don't know WHAT it was, but she yelped and began hiding behind me and shaking like crazy.  Of course, everyone gathered around us while I tried in vain to calm down the dog who is meant to calm me down.  Everyone wanted to know what she did for me, why she was so worked up, and every other question in the world While I attempted to get Brownie to focus on me and her Puppy Push-ups.  She calmed down a little, and we attempted our shopping excursion.  She just refused to calm down, though, so our trip was cut shorter than expected.

The experience at Mall #2 definitely was a learning experience.  The number one lesson I learned was, if my dog gets freaked, neither of us should continue on our way.  It's hard for me to calm down quickly after something like that, and I usually have the ability to tell myself that life is fine or I have Brownie to calm me down.  If Brownie has an issue like this (first time I've seen this since our training), it's a lot harder for her to recover when everyone stops us and asks questions and occupies precious time to refocus.  The second lesson is, always take the dog outside after this kind of incident because she now needs to relieve herself.  Yes, Brownie had the poop scared out of her.  She was really good about it, though, and didn't go until she was told to (outside in the grass, of course).  The third lesson: neither of us should be shopping for 6 hours straight.  It's just too much.  We got home and tried to wrap presents and cook, but I'm pretty sure we just curled up in bed.

Funks, Fantasy, and Freedom

You're probably wondering why I named this blog what I did.  Not gonna lie, it's partially because some of the names I wanted were taken.  This happened to be a blessing in disguise.  Let me first say that I LOVE alliteration.  I also like metaphors and similes, especially when vocabulary words escape me or the connotation isn't right.  Funks, Fantasy, and Freedom basically describes how my Anxiety and Depression affect me.  Below are some explanations to some of my life.

Funks
A funk is a day where nothing is appealing, every minor mishap is a major mistake, and crying is highly probable.  Here is something I wrote a while back to describe the funk while in the final days of it: 

I struggle so much to do the simplest of tasks and small things affect me so drastically.  I question everything I think and feel.  I want to cry or react violently to every mistake I make or when things don't go the way I want them to.  Everything seems to be in such a negative light, and all I feel like doing is shutting off the world. I force myself to socialize (if only a little), I force myself to do things I'm supposed to do (sometimes), I do things to make myself laugh (watching TV does count), I go to bed early, and I have been doing other things to combat this funk.  I still want to curl up under my covers and not come out until I am guarantied a good day.  Sometimes, I wonder if anyone else notices.  Sometimes, I know when people notice, and I get angry.  

Funks can often be just days that I'm in a daze too.  I had one of those last week.  I mostly sat at my desk watching the time and wishing for a good nap or just wishing I had started talking to the ADA lady before Fall/Winter (more on that too).  Funks are the days I'm most likely to have an anxiety attack since I'm pretty much in my head all day, avoiding people.  

Anxiety Attacks

Due to a lack of vocabulary, I use two different words to describe the way my brain/body malfunctions.  One malfunction is the anxiety attack.  The anxiety attack is mild compared to a panic attack.  The anxiety attack is fear or anger in a situation that is beyond the reaction a situation calls for.  Usually, speech is difficult but not impossible, mostly because I'm about to cry.  In fact, most functions are possible.  Instead of fight or flight mode, I freeze up.  Thoughts become hazy, if someone is talking to me (especially in lecture mode), everything they said didn't even get into my ear to go out the other, and my body is tense all day.  I have an intense feeling to curl up under my desk or in my bed and not ever come out.  It can also be an all-day process.  

Panic Attack

A Panic Attack is horrific.  Here is a way I described them once: 

My panic attacks start out with intense feelings of being unwanted, insignificant, judged, or wronged. I get tunnel vision and have to leave the area immediately. I can't talk, I can't breathe, and I know it will be a few moments before my body decides to no longer function. My heart physically hurts, my face tingles, everything feels surreal. I get to a wall and crouch so I don't fall and just cry a mean, ugly, terrified and terrifying cry. Breathing is so difficult, like I only have a little first-sized ball for lung capacity. My everything hurts, I feel like I'm watching myself and trapped in that lung ball at the same time and nothing could possibly make the pain, fear, and humiliation go away. When the panic attack has run its course, my muscles feel tense, I'm exhausted like I just fought my way out of a paper bag that suffocated me. I feel intense relief that it's finally over and extreme embarrassment that it happened again and there was nothing I could do to control it, control myself. I'm exhausted and full of energy, almost manic, but I continue my day on the outside like nothing happened while I'm quietly seething because my mind and body attacked me. To me, it's ten times worse than being attacked or assaulted by another person because I couldn't do anything about it before, during, or after to prevent it, make it stop, or make sure it didn't happen to anyone else.

Panic attacks rarely have warning signs before they strike.  I could be at a conference, in a grocery store, at work, or at a party, but the circumstances seem to have no discernible pattern.   

Fantasy

Fantasy is a lot of different things.  Fantasy is the paranoia when people gossip (more than likely in my head).  It's the paranoia when someone gives me a "look" like I'm crazy, stupid, or immature(quite often in my head).  Fantasy is the thousands of "What If"s that go through my head.   It's every time I overthink or analyze a situation.  It's the stories I tell myself to get to sleep and the dreams I have at night.  It's everything in my life that isn't real or is bigger in my mind than it is in reality.  It's obsessing over a situation that happened, whether it happened last night or when I was five.  Fantasy is the bitch who started yelling at you or stopped talking to you because of something or another.

Like drugs and bipolar disorder was for the Beetles, Fantasy is a double-edged sword.  On one hand, everything above.  On the other hand, I'm great at anticipating a problem and solving it, getting organized (especially for groups), and adding details to projects that make them that much better.  Fantasy is great for my career because I can get the major stuff out of the way first and then I work on making the project better.  Fantasy is how I'm able to put together instructions for the beginningest of user and forms for universal use.  It's also how I can come up with metaphors and comparisons when I can't form a better thought.  It allows me to think about others, pushing me to do good deeds when I can, and it opens my mind to religion and spirituality that people find hard to understand when they meet me.  

Freedom

Another excerpt from something else I wrote: 

Fortunately, I finally found a doctor that doesn't dismiss my issues and we are now working to prevent my panic attacks because they are real and they were not under my control, but they will be. I am choosing the freedom to control my own mind and body, and even though it means taking pills for the rest of my life, it's worth it to know that I don't have to live with this horrible, debilitating problem.

Freedom means less attacks and lessened depressive episodes.  It includes drug therapy and now my dog as well.  With Brownie, even on my worst days, I have the ability to go to the store alone or hit up the mall with a friend.  

Freedom is also coming to grips with my mental instability.  I decided a short while ago that the anxiety is a blessing.  Granted, it is not a blessing I wanted, but it's there.  It has opened my mind to ideas that have been hard to grasp. It has taught me to understand myself a little better, and it is definitely a challenge that I must face. There are many lessons to be learned from this, and I might not always like the teaching method, but I will be a better person for it.  This revelation has allowed me to come to grips a little better with my reality.  

I'm still not at a point where I can accept the mental instability every day.  There are days when I just want to give up and fall asleep forever.  There are days where I berate myself endlessly for being too compliant or "babying" my mental condition.  It's hard to remember how much love and support I have and that it's not just me.  I am a stubborn, stubborn woman, highly independent and self-sufficient, and raised on the old-fashioned belief that you are either completely crazy or you just suck it up.  It's hard to shed the negative connotation of a mental disability, especially when it comes to your own.  I should be able to shake off the funks.  I should be able to control what goes through my head, and I definitely should be able to control my body's reactions.  I am a strong, confident woman with a great support system.  I am generous with my time and money when I can afford to be.  I am good at my job, I know more about adult shit than some, and I am pretty fucking intelligent.  Why can't I look most strangers in the eye or strike up a conversation just willy-nilly?  Why do I feel that asking for help (mental, emotional, or monetary) is a huge failure on my part?  Why do I doubt my ability to do anything when I rarely fail at things I set my mind to?  Why am I like this?  

Fear and doubt cloud my mind often, but with a lot of work, Freedom will be mine.