I glance at the clock: quarter to nine. Okay.
I pick up my cellphone and turn it on: 8:45.
…
Shit.
The difference between traditional clock hands and the blaring pixeled digitalness is obvious – one seems safe, the other doesn’t. Why? Because I told myself that I would leave at “8:45″. That’s in numbers. I didn’t think, “quarter to nine,” which is how I read clocks. Nope. For six hours of subconscious awareness, “8:45″ was branded into my eyes and ears and thoughts.
I pause to wonder if I can make it to class on time. My cellphone now reads “8:46″. I’m still in my pajamas.
“Aw, fuck it,” I mutter and toss the phone back into my purse.
It isn’t that I’m lazy. Nor is it that I’m unenthusiastic about the subject. It’s because I received an e-mail from the instructor last night:
“Hi Everyone,
The discussion is going very well. Your posts are thoughtful and reflect content from the book and additional sources. “
Eh? …EH??
I log on to the class forum and find a week of work and discussions, as well as a grade scale based on that week. My stomach turns. I have an ‘F’ and no way of making it up.
See, I have been checking the forum off and on for two weeks, making absolutely positive that I wouldn’t be caught off-guard, but I was on the road all Sunday and have been sick since Monday. And in those four days, the entire class has discussed half of the first assigned book. A book I haven’t even been able to purchase yet.
I blink at the screen. My eyes kind of burn.
I stand up and pace back and forth within two square feet. It’s more like just turning in circles. I begin to hyperventilate. “No!” I think, “No no no NO! You can’t have a panic attack! It isn’t that bad, you fucking moron! NO!” I regulate my breathing and sit down again. Phew.
I am afraid of having panic attacks, almost as much as I am afraid during them. Panic attacks are a complete loss of control. For me, everything moves in slow motion because I am moving so fast. My vision becomes blurry, wavy, and walls close in. My body becomes numb and warm and I can’t feel anything I try to grab onto. I can’t breathe; I gasp for breath. I try to talk or call out, but I can’t even feel the words in my chest. One thought cycles through my mind: “I am going to die.”
There is nothing quite like the conflict of believing you are going to die but knowing that you will not. I use the term “believing” instead of “thinking” or “feeling” because it is a belief. There is nothing more true to you at that moment. But, logically, you know that a panic attack will not kill you. This is where the terror sets in. Think of a nightmare in which you fend off invisible monsters. Imagine fighting for your life against air. The struggle is futile: there is nothing to defeat.
Facing ordinary stresses such as 15 minutes to get ready and run across campus, only to enter class (failing or not) late, would be like injecting mercury into my bloodstream. Usually, I force myself to charge head-on, but I don’t plan to stay here anyway, right?
I sit down and play WoW for a few hours.
