Blown Tires be Damned!

To those who have followed this blog some or have read the interview I gave with Evelyn Jo, the fact that I have some pretty serious anxiety issues is of course, not a surprise. (Though, I admit, I was so far up the Denial River I was surprised when I got my diagnosis.) Anxiety attacks, or commonly known as 'panic attacks' are surprisingly common and they all show up in various different ways. Irritability. Sleeplessness. Inability to stay still. Sweaty hands... these symptoms are often combined with other, more serious issues like the shortness of breath, tightness of the throat, chest or stomach, derealization (that's being in a dream-like state).

On average, a single attack can last from a few minutes to a few hours... but with someone like me, whose severity of attacks have landed me in the ER thinking I was dying and whom is still learning what their triggers are, a single attack can last days. At the end of it all, once its all said and done, I am left exhausted. Raw. Depleted and with no other option but to curl in bed for another day or so to piece myself back together.

I had one of those bad attacks last week. I could feel it coming-- I found myself irritable and at the verge of tears for a few days. I'm still unsure if its because I had just survived Father's Day or the fact that my last therapy session was one of the most intense yet. Little things kept going wrong for me. Sleeping through alarms, getting caught in traffic and being late to work. Losing a good chunk of change (I still cannot believe I dropped $160 cash somewhere!). Forgetting my lunch. It really was a shit-cake of a week!

The cherry on that shit cake? Giving into some asshole who kept flicking his high beams and swerving to avoid a possible raccoon with a death wish had me pulling into my driveway at the wrong angle and a too high a speed. I hit the curb, something popped and then the car started shaking. What little control I had was quickly unraveling.

I pulled into my parking spot, shaking. I sat in my car for what felt like an eternity, reminding myself to breathe and screaming my mind to stop. All I could think of is how BAD this was. I had just lost almost $200 earlier that day and now I had broken an axle. I had no idea how or where to pull the money for this bullshit. I didn't know if my insurance would cover it. I was sure I was going to lose my job because I had no way to get there the next day!

As I walked around the car to survey the damage, I felt like I was dreaming... and as I inspected the damage (two holes, each the size of a quarter and a bent rim) I could not believe my luck. I went home, I dove into work with the Pageant and after a few hours, I began to cry.

And then I got angry. There I was, shaking like leaf, muffling my sobs so as to not wake up the husband and full of fear. I couldn't tell what I was so afraid of either. Maybe it was the uncertainty because it was too dark for me to see what other damage there was. Maybe it was because I had been fighting the inevitable since Saturday night. Maybe its because I had not gotten around to wish my Sloth a safe trip on his vacation. Maybe it was the therapy session and the stirred up memories. Maybe... there were so many maybes.

I'm not sure what happened once the anger breached the surface. I do remember taking a shot of whiskey, getting dressed (I was about to take a shower but I knew better than that... if I were to have taken that shower, I am certain I would have fallen off the bandwagon and sliced myself), putting on some flipflops and storming out to the car.

Sure, I looked a little silly and perhaps it was not the *smartest* thing to do at 1:30 am, but I needed to find my footing. I had to find the shore so I could swim toward it, damn it! About ten minutes later, I had my emergency blankets on the ground, the christmas tree that has yet to be put away shoved on the rear seats of the car and the old, silver, clunky flash light, heirloom of Hubby's Grandpa in my hand. I had been certain an hour before that I had no spare tire. HAH! I had been thinking of my old Toyota.

I found the spare. I found my jack. I was missing the crowbar and lug nut wrench and I still didn't know how bad the damage was. I also had no money for repairs and my insurance wouldn't cover the fucking damage but... I was getting somewhere. I could breathe again.

I took the batteries out of the flashlight as to not corrode the insides, put everything away and headed home. I slept like I hadn't in days...and I barely had the energy to get function the next day but I still had enough energy in me to move Vivi from her parking spot to level ground, flag the apartment manager down to help me remove the damned rim and went about the task of checking out the damage in better light.

Bad news, the tire could not be saved. Good news? One of the first things my father taught me upon getting my licence was how to change a goddamned tire. I even found the stupid wrench I needed to remove the lug nuts too! So as I knelt on the hot pavement, cursing under my breath because the stupid nuts were on so tight, I had my husband stand nearby and watch. He wanted to take over a few times and I told him to just watch.. He had to learn how to change a tire and I had to do this for myself. This was no ordinary blow-out. This was me taking charge of my life, following my dad's advice and doing things for myself. That fucking tire was a fucking metaphor for the fucked up and skewed view of my life!!

As I stood up and stuck my hands in my pockets to enjoy the satisfaction of being able to change the tire on my own, I felt the lancet I had stashed in there hours before. For a brief moment, the desire to lock myself in the bathroom and write across my arms and legs the frustration of not being able to guarantee that I'd be able to afford the stupid tire replacement which meant I'd lose my job which meant I'd have no money for rent, which meant I'd be evicted came crashing down on me.

"Lets take her out for a spin and see if she handles well," instructed my husband as he closed the trunk of the car. His voice snapped me out of it and all I could respond with was a finger in the air and a hoarse 'bully for me!'

Anxiety : Unknown tally counting in the thousands.

Ilayra: 2

Oh, and I managed it all without lighting a single cigarette.