I’ve heard that our bodies betray us in our old age. It’s probably more likely that they are paying us back for every abuse we bestowed upon them in our youth. I’m not sure what I did to deserve the hormone-induced anxiety attacks I’ve been having lately, maybe it was the 90 percent sugar diet I adhered to in high school, or maybe the three straight years without achieving REM sleep when my kids were babies. I’m not sure, but all I know is, for my fortieth birthday, my body gave me periodic moments of insanity.
It doesn’t always start the same way, but I can be sure it’s going to be a whopper when I start to feel like I am standing on the surface of the sun. Most people, when being cooked, have the luxury of screaming and flailing about. Unfortunately, that is not a wise response when it is happening in a shopping mall or at a PTO meeting. So one must pretend all is well, taking off only as much clothing as is legally permitted for the given situation.
Just when I start to get used to the internal combustion, my mind starts thumbing through the rolodex I keep of every mistake I’ve ever made, searching for just the right one on which to fixate. It can be anything: yelling at my kids in an exorcist voice, an off-hand comment to a friend that might have been taken the wrong way, forgetting to water my boss’s plants when he was on his honeymoon, not returning a phone call… whatever the crime, it is all I can think about.
I didn’t just forget to water those plants. I killed a living thing. A living thing that provides oxygen for every human being on this planet. I have single-handedly accelerated global warming. The world is going to end and it is, without question, all my fault.
Now I am usually a rational human being. When I fixate on something stupid, I can, even in the midst of my anxiety attack, recognize my insanity. I try to remind myself that forgetting to water plants is not actually a criminal offense. But then my thoughts take on a whole new angle. Why did I forget? Am I coming down with Alzheimer’s? How long do I have before I’m institutionalized? Who will look after my kids when I’m gone? Who will change my diapers? Where will they bury me? They’d better cremate me. I won’t be embalmed.
Apparently, these types of attacks are not uncommon among women from 35 to menopaused. If they get to the point that they disrupt a person’s life, there are many medications doctors can prescribe. I tried yoga breathing, because breathing can never be a bad thing (unless you’re under water), and herbal remedies, but the best non-prescription cure I found was calling friends and relatives who are kind enough to talk me down without calling the funny farm. Thank you for that, by the way, people. In the end I did get a prescription, because when you fixate on something that’s truly stressful (like when your son has cancer), the fear is not easily shaken.
The most irritating part of it all is that I was coming to enjoy the one great thing about getting older. I had shed my neurotic tendencies and realized most problems weren’t terminal. I was secure in who I was. And then, the revenge of the endocrine system. Ah well, it was nice while it lasted.
It doesn’t always start the same way, but I can be sure it’s going to be a whopper when I start to feel like I am standing on the surface of the sun. Most people, when being cooked, have the luxury of screaming and flailing about. Unfortunately, that is not a wise response when it is happening in a shopping mall or at a PTO meeting. So one must pretend all is well, taking off only as much clothing as is legally permitted for the given situation.
Just when I start to get used to the internal combustion, my mind starts thumbing through the rolodex I keep of every mistake I’ve ever made, searching for just the right one on which to fixate. It can be anything: yelling at my kids in an exorcist voice, an off-hand comment to a friend that might have been taken the wrong way, forgetting to water my boss’s plants when he was on his honeymoon, not returning a phone call… whatever the crime, it is all I can think about.
I didn’t just forget to water those plants. I killed a living thing. A living thing that provides oxygen for every human being on this planet. I have single-handedly accelerated global warming. The world is going to end and it is, without question, all my fault.
Now I am usually a rational human being. When I fixate on something stupid, I can, even in the midst of my anxiety attack, recognize my insanity. I try to remind myself that forgetting to water plants is not actually a criminal offense. But then my thoughts take on a whole new angle. Why did I forget? Am I coming down with Alzheimer’s? How long do I have before I’m institutionalized? Who will look after my kids when I’m gone? Who will change my diapers? Where will they bury me? They’d better cremate me. I won’t be embalmed.
Apparently, these types of attacks are not uncommon among women from 35 to menopaused. If they get to the point that they disrupt a person’s life, there are many medications doctors can prescribe. I tried yoga breathing, because breathing can never be a bad thing (unless you’re under water), and herbal remedies, but the best non-prescription cure I found was calling friends and relatives who are kind enough to talk me down without calling the funny farm. Thank you for that, by the way, people. In the end I did get a prescription, because when you fixate on something that’s truly stressful (like when your son has cancer), the fear is not easily shaken.
The most irritating part of it all is that I was coming to enjoy the one great thing about getting older. I had shed my neurotic tendencies and realized most problems weren’t terminal. I was secure in who I was. And then, the revenge of the endocrine system. Ah well, it was nice while it lasted.
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