Photo by Drew Dempsey on Unsplash
I'm shaking. Out of control. I can barely write. The pen is not doing what my brain wants it to do. I pivot to Lucky during these nocturnal panic episodes. I wonder if he beholds a monster in front of him. I am unrecognizable to myself; he hopefully does not see the me that I see. I long to see the me that was once a young girl with the wide world in front of her. A family with means (if no beating heart). A kingdom for the taking. She swung for the stars and landed on her ass, in rehab. Not once, not twice, but three times (the third not being the charm but rather the bridge to a lesser, more narrow, contained and controlled life sans additives or pill-fueled days). In this particular episode of Nights with Char Char, the nausea precipitates the sweating which, in turn, perpetuates the shaking. A trifecta of attractive attributes. I know the waves will pass but when I'm in it, it feels like I'm drowning, helpless. I consider getting down on my knees (but they don't bend that far) to pray. I would say something like: Forgive me, God, and please help me. Help me relax, relaX, relAX, reLAX, rELAX, RELAX. Help me be more patient with everyone and my dog ... and myself. Help me feel less trapped, suffocated. I'm keenly aware of Step 1: I am powerless and my life has become unmanageable. Spinning in place, I consider riding my stationary bike knowing that I would be tempted to turn on the TV in front of it. I'd stare into the middle distance absorbing news of the outside world which is an unmitigated dumpster fire on every level. That potent reminder would, of course, make me more anxious. God would undoubtedly send me a coded message by way of reply. Something like: Focus on the fact that your blood pressure is okay right now. You're welcome. Please give peace a chance. You're blessed; act like it. The attitude of gratitude is not my natural default, needless to say, so I would appreciate the reminder and promise to try. To do better. To accept the things I cannot change, blah blah. At 4:12 a.m., it dawns on me that my mental illness will utterly defeat me. With that epiphany, I want to crawl into Lucky's crate with him. But my walls are my crate, my container. Why don't I feel safe within them ... in my skin, body, home? I strived for so long to make everything in my house perfect. From the silk curtains to the top-tier dog to the Chanel shoes. In the end it turned out that the only imperfect fixture in my tableau—shaking, sweating and nauseous—was me. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.
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January 2025
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