Of Muffins and Cunts

This morning I was at Broadway Diner enjoying an english muffin and coffee and thought some things over. Sitting in a dinner, alone, is a great way to cause an existential crisis. I hadn't considered that, and rather thought that it would be good to get out of the house. Instead, I had a panic attack that caused a terrific chest tightness, and I felt totally alone and wretched. That didn't stop me from finishing my undertoasted muffin, or from getting a second cup of perfectly mediocre coffee. I tried to think positive thoughts and all that shit, but I kept imagining critical, humiliating commentary from friends and acquaintances. I felt ashamed and guilty for my 34 years, and the panic continued. When it started to get a little hard to breathe, I put a few bucks down on the counter, put on my gloves and coat, and went outside. The icy cold wind slapped me in the face, but the air felt good. I always keep a fan on in my bedroom because it helps me deal with the feeling of being smothered. Panic and anxiety makes me feel like that.

I drove home, which is about a minute away. The bitter cold and high winds made me drive instead of walk, however. My thoughts were stuck on my time at UMass Boston. This morning, while packing for the move, I found some photographs I took back in 1994 around the campus. None of the pictures had people in them. They were all of secluded spots near the ocean, or in the art gallery, or theatre, or of this building or that. They were all taken between classes, of course, when my natural disposition compelled me to seek out the comfort of an empty space. I had many friends, and a few girlfriends, among my classmates. But I was sure to keep them all at a distance. I was afraid of saying something stupid or thought I was ugly, or something, so I never wanted to be around my friends for long. It was different for girlfriends...for them, I would open up totally. It is in that fashion that they were ultimately driven away.

That's what I thought about during my panic attack. That's what caused it. I sat in the parking lot behind my flat weeping like an idiot. I think I was crying because of all the lost friendships, and because two suicide attempts, 5 hospitalizations, ECT and crippling mental illness was ahead of me; March 1998 to be exact. I'm so lucky to have benefited from therapy and medication, and for the close friends who stood by me through all that. But why the fuck can't I eat an english muffin in a diner without having an emotional meltdown like this?

I got out of the car and walked to my flat. As I passed a bagel on the ground, I took note of some nibble marks, probably from a squirrel. At that moment, I slipped on a patch of ice and landed flat on my back. Fortunately, my head broke the fall. Nobody saw this spectacle, thankfully, or heard me yell, "Ah, fucking cunts!" That would have been unfortunate.

As I walked into my kitchen, I realized my back was killing me. Not really a problem, as I have plenty of ibuprofen. I took one, and thought of calling Jen, Donna, Clare, Eva, Linda, Clare, Julia or perhaps just writing to someone I know only online...like Amanda, perhaps. Yes, I am concerned about that young lady. But I didn't call anyone. It was easier to take a pill.