2006-07-17 - 4:07 p.m.
Jack's Insecurity Is Killing Him
Last night, or some time this morning I realized something.
My insecurity is killing me.
If I keep going on the way I am, I will be dead.
After I wrote that last entry Friday night, I was feeling so horrible that I just put myself to bed. Going to bed is my way of wrapping myself in a straight jacket, closing my eyes and waiting for the reset button to click.
The last thing that trailed off my mind was,
"I am a nervous wreck. I can not even write anymore."
As the sleep drug began to take effect, I wondered if I should get up and write that down somewhere. Instead, I told myself to hold on to it. Wrap a subconscious fist around it, and do not drop it.
And I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
And a strange thing happened. Whatever I was trying to sedate by sleeping, refused to be sedated. It tore the needle out of its arm, snapping it off and not even caring. It would not be silenced. I shot up in bed, the way I always did back at the Old Antagonist's house. Some cold blooded jolt of horror, throwing you up and forward into the dark nightmare of your room.
I think I thought that something was wrong with my cat. That he was dead or something. But that was probably just what I was dreaming. I vaguely remember looking at him, and feeling some sort of terrifed rage that the fan was running, so I snapped it off thinking I would feel better. It stared back at me, as some sort of icey jet engine. A massive metal machine that I had to face.
My insides were so cold.
Even with the stale warm summer breeze blowing in through my window. I was freezing. My entire core was chilled as if I had been soaked in snow, not sweat, for hours. For some reason, I moved closer against the wall, under the window. Thinking I could become warm again or at least calm. I took a fetal position and breathed into my pillow. Despite the fact that I have many panic attacks in bed, my bed is my safe place. If I have a panic attack somewhere else in the house, I will run to my bed and wrap myself in a straight jacket of blankets until it passes.
Most of the time now, I can fight them off. I can rationalize it all away. Stop. Drop. Roll.
Sweat. Breathe. Rationalize.
But this time it was not working.
I sat up in bed and felt the terror rising in me. No matter what I did, the volume just kept getting louder and louder. This was getting past my control at an alarming rate. I grabbed my phone and held it. Sometimes just holding my phone in my hand will remind me that everyone I know is in the palm of my hand. That they are all available with in a second's reach. Knowing that they are there, is usually enough. Not this time.
The alarms began sounding in my head, and I realized that this time I really would have to call. This time it was serious. This only upset me more. I moved through my phone book, looking at names. Not wanting to call. But knowing each passing second that I really had to this time.
Then it hit me.
Suddenly all of these things were running through my head, and it was like every neuron I have, exploded at the same time. I was on my feet now, back arching, head back, as if I was in some sort of pleasure thrall. But I wasn't.
All of these things, these thoughts, were flying through me at light speed. Electrical impulses. Static. Blue and grey nerve signals. Processed noise. And with the little bit of conscious control I had left, I exclaimed loudly through my closed mouth that I couldn't take it anymore.
IT.
And the concept of IT made things so much worse.
IT was all around me. IT was inside of me.
IT was everywhere and I couldn't take IT anymore. IT was relentless and made my head pop and explode.
And I wanted to scream then fall in a catatonic ball somewhere strange and not move for hours. All I wanted was silence and the hard brown wood floor. I kept thinking about the floor for some reason.
And I thought about work. Stupid fucking work. It seemed so much less important than my neurotic fear desires. And I broke some more. More popping and exploding. I am in no condition for this, and no one fucking cares.
I found myself in the bathroom, holding onto the edge of the bathtub. Almost pretending that my roomate was inside.
The first night I took Paxil, I felt the drug running down my spine, like cold acid, and it sent me running and clinging to the side of the tub, as she rationalized everything away. I half remembered this and grabbed onto the tub, so I could act out a reassuring memory. Only this time, she was in my ear. I had dialed the phone somewhere between my room and the bathroom.
My face was glowing blue from the freshly dialed numbers, and now someone was finally in my head with me.
I should have been leaving for work right then.
But instead, I was in the bathroom, in the dark, hugging the fucking bathtub and falling apart. My roomate listened as I narrated the bottom falling out of my mind. Most of the time it was just me talking. Talking to hear myself talk. Like I used to when drugs hit me the wrong way. My own voice filled my ear most of the time, but at least I knew someone else was there now. I do not even know what I said really.
I remember telling her that I did not even know what body temperature I was. How cold my insides were, how stale and warm my skin was. I told her I felt like I had the flu. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to throw up everything that was inside me into the toilet. I wanted to shit it out. Explosively. Even if it hurt. I felt like I had the flu, and something inside had to come out. Somehow.
She suggested I get some ice water. Maybe I really was sick? Maybe I could not take the heat. I told her I had been drinking water all day. I was fine. I got some water anyway.
Still not really in my right mind, I said that I think I had a nervous breakdown. My head exploded. I could not get any other words out. My head just exploded. That was it.
She suggested stress and it felt like it was going to explode again, when I started thinking about work. About the problems I am having at work. All of these things plus the ones I did not want to talk about were coming to life, and I felt even sicker.
She wanted me to come over, I could stay with her for a while before I went to work.
I had to keep telling her that I could not drive.
She tried to understand, but this was not just another panic attack. I knew myself well enough that I could not drive like this. All I seemed capable of was sitting in the dark, now on the closed toilet, talking on the phone.
We talked for a little while until I ran out of things to say. She asked if I felt better. I said a little. I was good enough now, so I let her go. I really did need to get going. I thanked her. Then it was just me again.
I made my way to my bed and just laid there for what seemed like hours. Not really thinking. Not really doing anything. Just staring into the dark.
When I finally got up, I still did not feel right.
As I walked around the house, the feeling began to come back. I wanted to grab the phone and call her again. Whatever this was, was not done with me just yet. Still, I tried hard to breathe and not think about it. Thinking about it would make it come back. But all I could think of was what if I broke down again? What if it was worse? What if it was the Big One. The one I have always feared.
I began concentrating on whatever I was doing. Really focusing. Reality. It would take control of my perception. It would take me back. It always does.
I stepped outside, in some sort of neurotic drug stupor, and the world was a surreal nightmare painted in blues, blacks and greys. I was in some sort of acid trip computer animated cartoon. And I had to drive through this cartoon to get to work, where reality would set in.
Somehow I decided that I had to drive. I just had to. I would do it and I would be fine. As I drove I repeated a line from a Bob Marley song. "Every little thing is going to be alright." I made a mantra of it. Every little thing was going to be alright. I sang in my head in his voice, as if he was telling me and I was believing him.
Soon I would be at work and there would be more songs I could follow along with. I seem to know them all. Even the whiny boy band crap. Even the achy breaky horse operas. When I hear words enough, any words, I remember them for some reason. I could fill my head with familiar filler material, and perform my robotic functions.
Mind numbing.
For once that was a good thing.
And I was alright. I did not feel quite right that night, or even the next day, but I was alright. I just felt a little more disconnected and tired than usual. Whatever happened, took a lot out of me.
Part of me knows that I did have a nervous breakdown. I have had one before, it is not a feeling you forget.
The last time was years ago when I was in the car accident. That one was much worse. That was the first time. I thought it was the last time too.
At least that one made sense.
This time does not make as much sense to me. It just happened. I keep wanting to say that it didn't. But I know it did. You just know some things.
This is what made me stop and realize that my insecurity is killing me. Not writing is killing me.
All of this "not writing" that I have been doing is not about writer's block. Infact it is quite the opposite. Contrary in a snickering way. This is about me.
This is about me not being able to touch bottom in my own head sometimes and not being able to talk about it.
Not being able to talk.
Not even wanting to most of the time anymore.
Because I want to slap myself even more than everyone else does.
And I do. I beat myself behind closed doors.
I feel like I should put a piece of duct tape over my mouth and draw a smile on it. Sometimes I can take it off to breathe and eat. Have some water. Allow myself some human moments, then put the tape back on and put another piece over that one with a darker smile. As if to reinforce the message to myself.
Sometimes I talk too much.
Sometimes I do not talk at all.
Sometimes I just edit myself into silence.
Maybe if I shut up I will just disappear
It's Only After You've Lost Everything... - 2008-03-12
Jack Is Afraid Of Losing Everything - 2008-03-10
Jack Does Not Know What He Is Living For - 2008-03-07
Jack's Festering Apathy - 2008-03-07
