When Anxiety Attacks

Ninety minutes of obliteration (mine – not about football)

I had an anxiety attack this morning. It lasted for an hour and a half. A light comedic movie should last this long, not a fucking anxiety attack. Ninety minutes is a really long time for the mind to hijack the body. Anyway, during that time I reached the view that the only sensible course of action is suicide. This is what happens. Then, you wind down and feel so, so tired. Just bone and meat and tissue tired, and you think perhaps you don’t want to kill yourself so much after all and you look at your desk all miraculously tidy and you don’t really recall doing it and you swoop on all that hair of yours laying around that you pulled all out of your head because you remember that, and did I switch from “I” to “you” there as some kind of dissociative distancing tactic? Is that what a psych doctor would say? IS THAT WHAT DR. DREW WOULD SAY?

I always try to listen to Dr. Drew Pinsky. It can be tricky because usually he is dealing with Teen Moms or hectic train wrecks like Michael Lohan and Dennis Rodman but he is more helpful than any of the Australian and non-celebrity doctors I have dealt with who have all been shonks and schmucks, limp wolves that stand well back from the void and tell you to take bubble baths.

P.S. I don't know who this woman is or what that thing is on her lap but I want to be her.