My anxiety makes me an asshole.

I saw this today.

And it hit. Hard.

See. For the last few weeks, I’ve been having panic attacks. I want to say daily but I really don’t know if they end or just continue on to the next day.

I legit thought I was having a heart attack at work. And instead of letting my boss know or going to the hospital I texted my husband and he brought me a cup of water. For those that don’t know, we work for the same company in the same building. I told him about how I woke up and couldn’t feel my left arm. At work I had trouble breathing, pain in my chest and upper back. A migraine that could stun an elephant.

But I had invoicing to do. And tickets to put in. Plus I didn’t want to use my PTO for something that might have been nothing. I mean, we sat for 7 hours just in the waiting room of the ER after HayHay was in a car accident. It was still 5 hours till she was released. Could you imagine what they would say seeing me walk in?

They’d see a middle aged, peri menopausal, slightly overweight woman who was just experiencing an anxiety attack. If they even took me seriously, they’d shoo me off and tell me to stop seeking drugs.

But see. There’s the thing. I don’t want drugs. Which is so hypocritical because I’m the first one that tells people that if their brains don’t make the chemicals then store bought is fine.

But I’ve always been like that. Everything is OK for everyone but me. Someone is a little overweight? That’s cool because I still love you and that doesn’t change you. Need meds for your mental health? Dude, you do what you need to make the brain do the things. But me? Nope. Not ok. I need to be 130 pounds and perfectly mentally stable without therapy or meds. Because that makes sense.

And this attitude brings me to current situation. Being an asshole.

Listen. Here’s the thing. My anxiety makes me feel like I’m being chased. I get nauseated and my skin prickles. Then the migraines come. Light and sound hurt. And it gets worse with every pound of my heart.

But I can’t take off work. And I can’t go right to bed. I still need to make dinner even though I’m not going to eat. I can’t read a bedtime story to my son. I can’t even read for myself. I wind up being grumpy and short with my family.

And they say they understand. They say they get it. But my anxiety gnaws at the base of my brain like the evil ferret it is. My anxiety tells me they’re going to get sick of me and my bullshit and just stop caring.

I’m pretty sure I need meds. But that requires a doctor appointment or a few. Then meds. And trying to find the right mix to keep my anxiety and depression from ripping me apart.

I do get PTO. I like to use that for my kids’ appointments. Plus, I really don’t want my work backing up if I’m gone. And I certainly don’t want it piling up on my boss.

I just wish there was a middle point. So I wouldn’t have to feel so mad and sad and tired and grumpy and scared and can I just be normal? I just want to be normal. I’ve been like this for so long I can’t even remember what my normal looks like. Shallow breathing and racing thoughts and pounding heart has become my normal. Frayed nerves and disappointment in myself. Anxiety and depression being released through snappy snarky comments and hateful looks.

And I hate it.

I’m not ok. And it’s not ok. I just want to be ok. Is it OK to be ok?


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