betwixtmas
reflections on a panicky year
This time last year what I remember most vividly is a sensation of raw animal panic. It was ruthless, relentless. A white hot blade at my throat held in place by the leather-gloved hand of a professional. Late at night I could hear the Panicman whispering: Shut the fuck up, bitch.
I did not shut up. (Shutting up is not my forte.)
What I did learn to do over time was choose my words — and more crucially — my company, more carefully.
When I say “company” I mean the people with whom I chose to spend my time and talk to, honestly and openly, on a regular basis. If you choose your company well, you don’t need to shut up, or play dumb or put on a show for anyone. You can relax and be wholly yourself, for better or worse, but almost always for better because good company makes you warmer, more generous, and open. Good company allows you to expand out of yourself and take an active interest in people you trust rather who are not you. Thank god.
The dreadful thing about panic (depression, anxiety, nerves, call it what you want) is how isolating and self-absorbing it is.
Panic is a prison. It’s torturous and dull. Good company is the break out. It binds you to a collective (even if it’s just a collective of two — or one).
Prolonged panic robs you of appetite and sleep, which in turn messes with your perspective. This time last year, the world around me seemed to be collapsing. The children were in danger! The house was flooding! No wait, the house wasn’t flooding, it was sinking, exploding, unravelling, spontaneously combusting — a river of similes surged through me, pooling into a sludge of mixed metaphors. I functioned, but I was somewhere else, clinging to the ceiling.
The point is, all my energy was swept into the panic.