Something otherworldy has bombarded my system.
Something sinister and evil, disguised as a saint with golden tipped wings and the voice of a thousand Adele’s. When he flares, I shudder, and when I smother him with blankets he burns red hot. When I move he shakes the earth beneath my intestines and a bubble of bile reaches the tip of my esophagus before flowing back down into hell, taking all the moisture in my mouth with it.
In other words, I’m never eating Jack In The Box again.
My boyfriend and I decided to . . .
This is the next day. At the end of that ellipse I had paused. I paused and I slammed the chromebook down and I announced I was having a panic attack: one of the big ones. It came out of no where. I did what I always do: I start breathing slowly and wandering outside in my white and pink pajama pants, an exercise shirt, and a silver Raiders jacket. I try to talk myself through the reasons why I would be panicking.
- I’ve been stressed for the past two and a half weeks, non-stop, and haven’t done anything as a way of lowering that stress.
- I got food poisoning or something from the deep fried tacos the other night and awoke nauseated and with a slight fever. Knowing my heath anxiety, I made it out to be more than it was.
- I’m extremely dehydrated.
No matter how much I walked or breathed my heart rate would not fall and I felt the tingling in the tips of my fingers and the world distancing itself from me. I’ve been here too many times before and I know my limits.
So I went to the hospital. They gave me two ativan and waited for my heart rate to go down. It decreased a little. My blood pressure went back down to normal.
But I’m still stressed. My heart rate is still high this afternoon, I can feel it and I can catch senses of small palpitations; drugs can only do so much. I got a prescription for 6 more ativan and I may take one or two later today.
I haven’t eaten in over 24 hours, which also probably contributes.
My fever seems to have gone away. I never got to finish telling you all: my boyfriend and I went to jack in the box and after eating one of their munchie meals I woke up with nausea and fever and chills.
When I got home from the hospital, I passed out. I woke up at 10 p.m still in an ativan haze and drank some water and puked it up. I’ve been drinking water for the last hour and a half and it’s staying down. I’m also going to try and eat some fruit and some crackers and somehow make it through math this morning.
I know there’s still too much built up cortisol in my system. So I’m trying not to sleep. I’m trying to move throughout the day as much as I can; it’s the only way this rate is going to decrease.
I went into math a half an hour late and basically let my hand record all of the notes and I disconnected from the world and slept.
The thing I don’t like about going into an emergency room for something like a panic attack is the lack of service. Last time I went in I said I was having trouble breathing, and instantly they took me in the back and set me up in a bed and did an EKG. Then intravenously gave me ativan.
This time the nurse took forever to even see me, even though I was walking around the hospital floor slapping my hands on my thighs and talking to myself and struggling to breathe through the constriction of my throat, my blood rushing, and my finger tips tingling. We went into a different waiting room where a doctor came in and asked me what was going on. I said I was pretty sure I was having a panic attack. He asked me, in the most condescending voice possible, “who usually takes care of these panic attacks?”
I glared and said I do.
He said “Well it doesn’t look like that’s working, does it?”
He asked if I had anyone to help me with this. I told him I have a psychologist. He asked “well hmm are you going to tell them about this”
I said yes.
He said “smart choice.”
I said no shit.
He got me an ativan. We waited thirty minutes and they took my heart rate and blood pressure, both of which were a little high, but not horrible, not like the last time.
They gave me a second Ativan and continuously asked me if I was doing Meth. No, I’m not doing meth, I”m a very stressed out college student with a slew of mental health issues and a build up of cortisol. Give me a break.
The second ativan lowered my blood pressure but my heart rate was a little high. They released me upon the belief it was just the anxiety. And I agree. It’s always my anxiety. I run, I work out, and I’ve never had a heart palpitation or a speeding heart rate beside when I’m anxious.
That condescending doctor was an asshole. He spoke to me like I was a baby. It wasn’t so much of his words, but more of his tone of voice, as if I were wasting his time because I can’t take care of myself.
That’s why I wish they handled panic attacks at the behavioral health place down the street, where all the 5150’s are sent to now. At least they’d have a little bit better understanding of what it means when you’re having a panic attack.
I’m thankful I do not get pain when I have a panic attack. My throat constricts and I start hyperventilating and I get the tingling in my finger tips, but I’ve never got Chest pain and that I am extremely thankful for. Or else I’d really, truly believe I’m dying.
Regardless, when this new insurance kicks in, I’m going to get a full physical. The fact that this anxiety makes me feel like I’m sick and dying when I’m not makes me want to confirm with real tests that I’m not. I want them to tell me my heart is health and my lungs are healthy and my entire body is healthy, so when I start freaking out I can repeat that mantra in my head : I’m healthy, I’m healthy, I’m healthy.
Anxiety is a bitch.