I drove to Westport today to have my septum pierced again. The original one declined to heal because it had gone through the cartilage so I took it out and let it heal. HUGE DIFFERENCE. The guy at Freaks on 39th just used a receiving tube instead of those horrid clamps and it hurt about as bad as an eyebrow piercing, which is to say barely. This is one of the few things lately that perks me up (along with my adorable puppies, for whom I get up some days instead of just sleeping for 24 hours). I like this piercing, and I missed it. WHY do I like my septum and tongue piercings enough to have them done repeatedly until they're right? I don't know. Who cares. My post title comes from The Bloggess, who has depression and speaks freely about it. Her catch phrase is "depression lies." I don't have depression per se, but I have crippling panic that wears me out to a point that strongly resembles depression. Panic will lead you directly into anhedonia just for an appetizer, and it goes downhill from there. I'm pretty far down the hill, and my brain tells me I suck, nobody likes me, I'm defective, I'll never be happy…it makes compelling cases for all. And what doesn't help? Is that it's TIRING to be around someone who feels like this, so my friends do stay away, so my brain has reinforcement. And a part of the thinkery-fuckery that comes with panic and anxiety is "I need reassurance and want company" hand in hand with "you will probably do something to make me more upset so I would rather be alone all the time."
I wish to remind the world at large that the definition of a panic attack is YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO DIE SOON. Most people have not HAD a panic attack. They've had anxiety, maybe, but that isn't what I have. Against all my training and reason runs the absolute conviction that ruination and death lurk imminently on my horizon. Sound awesome? It's not as much fun as it sounds like. It's so not-fun that I frequently run up against a strong desire for permanent unconsciousness. This is different from being suicidal; I don't want to destroy myself. I just want to get away from the oppression of constant terror. This seems reasonable to me. If you're terrified all the time and feel OK with it, that is odd.
What isn't helpful? Is texting "I am certain I am going to die and I can't get my heart to stop racing and I can't breathe and my chest hurts" to people who KNOW I have panic disorder and hearing…nothing. I did this the other day and the two people who responded I have never met in real life. I know them from SoMe. Also in that category is answering "how are you?" with "Bad" and getting a response like "what are you wound up about now?" Wound up? Are you fucking kidding me? I'M "WOUND UP" BECAUSE MY HEART RATE HAS BEEN ABOVE 150 BPM FOR 3 DAYS. Like I said in my text you ignored before. So ignore me or don't be an asshole, but choice C is not so good.
Not that my acquaintances are charged with being helpful, necessarily. But jaysus. If someone texted me and said, "I've broken my leg and it hurts," I'd probably at least say, "That sucks" or even ask if I could help with anything. The difference, I suppose, is that my leg is constantly broken. I don't like it either.
To stave off the comments: yes, I'm under the care of doctors and therapists. Yes, I take my medicines as prescribed (which I include because I tend to decline to be compliant with any medicines at all…). Sometimes it just isn't enough. And why the rant? Because (chorus) it's my blog, and I can do what I want!