Last night, as I got into bed, late, I felt that familiar flush hit my head, a wave of claustrophobic heat that's not a hot flash but I've learned to recognize as a thumb's up that a full-fledged anxiety attack is on the way.
I was both overly frazzled and totally exhausted. A sinus infection's dug its heels in. In spite of it I did yoga first thing in the morning and then ran around the entire day. Jon came down with either a stomach bug or food poisoning last night and so, in addition to the usual dinner, baths, walking dogs, and sibling and canine mediation, he needed some serious attention and care.
On top of that, we should be finding out today what's up with the transplant. And let me say, again, that it's far easier to be brave about this when nothing's actually happening.
On the surface I was trying to hold it together, afraid if I even mentioned the terror just under the surface, it would pull me under.
I didn't want to go there.
And this time I didn't.
I fought back. Hard. Even though I was sure I didn't stand a chance. I clutched fuzzy pillows. I chanted sanskrit in my head. I went over the next day's to do list until I finally fell asleep.
I woke up with a pit in my stomach and cramps rippling across my abdomen. Could be sympathy pangs. Could be from my period. Could be I caught something. My throat hurts. I'm so tired I could crawl right back in bed again. I'm still balancing on that sharp edge of panic - the air is so thin here it's hard to breathe.
But if I can face giving away a kidney, if I can do a headstand in the middle of the room, if I can ride the subway by myself, then fuck you anxiety. You can keep showing up. You can keep playing your game. You can shadow me forever. But I know you won't win.