This post is taking AGES to write as I only have 9 fingers. Well, 9 operational fingers. One of them is out of action thanks to a ‘kitchen incident’.
Anyway, let me tell you the story of what happened last Sunday night, and importantly, what I’ve learned from the (somewhat stressful) experience.
This post is about FEAR. It’s about what happens when I need to run away…and I can’t. OK, that’s a strange way to begin a blog post and you might be wondering what I’m on about with that statement. Quite honestly though, the understanding behind it has been a recent epiphany for me! I’m confusing you though and I need to start at the beginning. 😏
I’ve been going through a very difficult time. Actually, that’s rather an understatement as I’ve been so stressed that the panic attacks I first experienced after Norbert died have returned. I hadn’t had a panic attack for ages and I thought they were part of a traumatic past….so it has been scary to go back there.
What has happened? You really don’t need all the detail but suffice it to say that since I signed the contract that signified the sale of my house, it has been a spiral downward due mainly to the fact that I haven’t been able to find another place to go, and the date I have to leave is looming closer. Add to that some upsetting issues with agents and buyers and a houseful of stuff that needs sorting, packing and boxing….not to mention the whole pandemic thing which has prevented family being able to come up and help.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I found myself standing in the kitchen with my heart pounding, hands shaking, sweating and trying not to be sick. I was feeling scared, and very, very alone. Unlike the first time after Norbert died when I thought I was having a heart attack, this time I at least knew that it was a panic attack. Full on….like I was back at the beginning of the nightmare.