to be in control of my whiny cunt levels! If I’m going to alienate you, I want to curate that alienation. I want to craft the persona that turns you off. I don’t want the real me, my vulnerabilities and humanity, to leak out and make you run. I don’t want to have needs.
Like, what if you found out I am really not okay? What if you knew that I am suffering a lot right now and really scared? Would you flee? I don’t want to find out. So I deflect my vulnerability into humor or “wise platitudes.”
That’s what I did when the person extended his kind words. I was like, Oh, well, our curses are our blessings. If I didn’t have panic disorder there would be no So Sad Today.
That’s sort of true. I mean, So Sad Today wouldn’t exist if I never experienced emotional and psychic pain that felt like it was going to kill me. And I like that So Sad Today exists. But it’s also sad that I am afraid to just say thank you, human to human, when someone extends sympathy. Like, to receive compassion means I am weak. And I am terrified of being weak.
I’m also terrified of other people’s narratives. I don’t want to be perceived as falling apart. Like, it’s fine that I’m frightened of me. But if you are frightened of me, then the problem is more real. I don’t really know how much I am allowed to fall apart. I don’t think I want to find out.
At the same time, I kind of do want to find out. After all these years of preserving my facade in daily life, I’m fucking tired. It would probably be a real relief to just crumble. I wish I could trust that the universe has me and that I could just let go. Or, like, even if I don’t trust that the universe has me (and I don’t), it would be a relief to just surrender anyway. I think my biggest fear and deepest wish is to surrender.
Like, I would love to just stand up at a work meeting and be like, “Hi, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I may be talking about ‘our brand’ but I’m definitely dying. You are too. We all are. But, like, I think I am dying right now. My throat is closing in and my chest is constricted. I have to go. I don’t want to die here.”
I would love to tell a creative collaborator, “Hey, I know that you want to talk about narrative arc. But I’m actually not inside my body anymore. Did you know that in my head you are the enemy? You have become the enemy, because you’ve trapped me inside this Starbucks.”
I’d like to tell a friend, “I have more panic attacks around you than anyone else. I am supposed to feel comfortable around you, and the fact that I am supposed to be comfortable adds to my shame around not being comfortable. This makes me anxious. I think we should just text for the rest of the friendship. Thanks.”
I’d like to tell a lover, “The panic attacks I have around you are more painful than the ones I have around anyone else. This is because I am supposed to feel intimate with you. The pressure to feel close to you, while I am having a panic attack, makes me feel totally and completely alone.”
It’s probably good that I don’t say these things to people. It’s probably good that I keep pushing myself to leave the house and maintain my social masks of competence, engagement, and comfort. But what if I did tell people exactly what was going on? What if I valued my own peace of mind more than what other people think of me? Would I end up jobless, friendless, and loveless? Would I vanish entirely?
One time I saw an interview with a female musician whom I greatly admire, someone who is known to suffer from mental illness. She is brilliantly talented and has exhibited some eccentric behavior over the years, including a few rather public breakdowns. She contains madness and talent. She contains both of those things.
The interviewer asked her about her typical day. He was like, “Do you wake up and make breakfast? Do you make some eggs?” She looked at him coldly and responded, “I don’t eat eggs.”
At that moment I realized that the one question I would want to ask her, the only question for me