Out of step

So often I feel like an imposter moving about life. My steps are so deliberate and planned. It’s like I’m watching myself audition (...and 5,6,7,8). It’s only when I make uncoordinated, sloppy stomps that it actually feels like I’m living authentically.

This past weekend my clunky collided with my demure. I had a panic attack at dinner in front of my family.

Let me set the stage, if you will. I’m a teacher on summer break and my husband and I close on our new condo three days before school starts. I have a daughter starting college two days after closing and the other going to 7th grade about a week later.

I have a lot going on at one time. I am very much the person who can’t have too many windows on my browser open at the same time. I have to close an app before I can open another. My husband of course has seen the worst, but I rarely let my kids see my anxiety “app.” I deal with it behind my closed bedroom door. Or dramatic 80s style sliding and crying down the walls in the shower.

I’ve had many years of practice of hiding my battles with mental illness in plain sight. Being an introvert affords me my decompress time, my “she’s just shy” excuse and my reserved RBF or poker face.

All my hard work came crashing down when I lost control. I lost the remote control.... anyone? It was funnier in my head.

My lovely husband cooked dinner while I unpacked and repacked a box that was “in his way” in the garage. During packing Netflix asked was I still watching Friends, duh! (Seriously, is there anything more douchbaggy to ask mid binge?) But I couldn’t find the remote to click yes.

Over and under and through and in and out and I’m perched on the edge of the couch, I flipped over twice. (....and 5,6,7,8). I was shaking, my mind was racing. Where the fuck is the remote, no seriously, where is it?!!

(.....2,3,4) I sit across from my youngest to eat dinner, chicken Parmesan with spaghetti (bless his Italian heart!) I can’t really taste anything apart from the still crunchy pasta and slightly charred crust on the chicken. I can barely hold my fork without shaking. I’m looking across the table in my daughter's direction, but I only see the stroppwaffle box in the pantry behind her. I mindlessly chug the rest of my wine that magically appeared in front of me.

A gentle touch on my hand and calming voice tell me to breathe. And I’m out of my trance and the beat drops and its full on panic attack. (In through my nose, out through my mouth, and repeat). I’m breathing sooo deeply and rocking and crying. And then I look at their faces, my girls. They don’t look scared; they look calm, calm for me. They understand what’s happening with their mother. And eventually my breath slowed, the shaking ceased, and I was almost back.

I excused myself and went to my bedroom. I needed to rest. One by one they came up to check to see if I was ok and I wasn’t, but I was getting there. My husband came up to tell me my oldest found the remote in a bag I packed.

He said he knows it wasn’t about losing the remote itself; it was was that I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t have put it better. I had lost control.

What I take from this experience is that being vulnerable and letting people see what’s behind my curtain can be help me cope when my anxiety overwhelms me. And I can get back on beat (...and 5,6,7,8).