Sanity: MIA
Got home on Friday to prepare for in-law hell. Promptly managed to have my first appearance-related-hallucinating panic attack in two years. In the mirror, my breasts were starting from my shoulders and stretching down to my waist, consuming my entire upper body. My arms were tree trunks, my legs even more so. My curves vanished and were replaced in my vision by acres of unwanted flesh…. Next thing I know I was locked in the toilet, retching and sobbing, unable to breathe, tears pouring from what seemed like my mouth, nose and ears as well as eyes. I’d forgotten how horrific that feeling is. Poor darling Him was standing outside the loo, shouting at me to unlock the door, furious with me for scaring Him by suddenly running from the room with my hand over my mouth.
A few years ago, this used to be a regular occurrence, but since Him it’s only happened a couple of times, and never when He’s been there. He knows about it, of course – I tell Him everything, and I did have one of my severe depressions for a few months during our first year together, so He knows I’m not always entirely stable… But it really has been two years since then, and even I’ve believed that I might be better… Which I suppose I am, but that was one hell of a relapse.
Afterwards I lay in bed shaking, trying to convince myself to get up, try dressing again, and get some make-up on. The party that had caused the panic still had to be attended…
In the end I eschewed valium (fear of flying supply) in favour of the oldest-party-outfit-in-the-world, which even my twisted brain knows I look good in (jeans, vertiginous heels, low cut black top, vintage blue velvet blazer, no jewelley). Put it on, didn’t look in the mirror (obviously). Slapped on enough make-up to make a drag queen wince, washed most of it off again, and elected for the natural-face-plus-dramatic-lips look. Took the focus off my puffy eyes and puke-green complexion.
Then, of course, as every brave girl does, I took a deep breath, pulled my shoulders back, slapped a smile on my face, a kiss on His lips, and sashayed out of the door. I am, after all, a master at being composed on the outside.
A few years ago, this used to be a regular occurrence, but since Him it’s only happened a couple of times, and never when He’s been there. He knows about it, of course – I tell Him everything, and I did have one of my severe depressions for a few months during our first year together, so He knows I’m not always entirely stable… But it really has been two years since then, and even I’ve believed that I might be better… Which I suppose I am, but that was one hell of a relapse.
Afterwards I lay in bed shaking, trying to convince myself to get up, try dressing again, and get some make-up on. The party that had caused the panic still had to be attended…
In the end I eschewed valium (fear of flying supply) in favour of the oldest-party-outfit-in-the-world, which even my twisted brain knows I look good in (jeans, vertiginous heels, low cut black top, vintage blue velvet blazer, no jewelley). Put it on, didn’t look in the mirror (obviously). Slapped on enough make-up to make a drag queen wince, washed most of it off again, and elected for the natural-face-plus-dramatic-lips look. Took the focus off my puffy eyes and puke-green complexion.
Then, of course, as every brave girl does, I took a deep breath, pulled my shoulders back, slapped a smile on my face, a kiss on His lips, and sashayed out of the door. I am, after all, a master at being composed on the outside.
posted by Mookmoo at 10:12 am
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