So. Panic attacks. Apparently they’re a thing.
They’re happening every damn day and I’m sick to death of them. It’s not so bad on the weekends – I can close myself into my room, I can go for a walk, I can step away from my email, I can take a shower, I can take a nap. I can get away from the thing causing me to panic.
I can’t do that at work.
I know what triggers it – feeling pressured to do something when I don’t know what to do. So a customer asking me questions I don’t know the answer to, or presenting me with a completely jacked-up account where I can’t even begin to understand where it went wrong, let alone how to fix it, is a sure-fire ticket to panic-land. But there’s other things too. An email scene where I’m blanking on how to respond, or where I feel like I don’t understand the mechanics enough to know what to do, will do the same thing. Feeling like someone’s mad at me when I don’t understand why? Oh hell yes, because I can’t fix that shit.
And then my heart is hammering and I’m hyperventilating and all I can think is I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this even though I know that’s not a productive mantra, and all I want to do is run and hide and have a good cry somewhere private.
It’s a combination of pregnancy hormones/emotions and the fact that I can’t take my anti-depressants because, well, bebe. I understand this. I know that the world does not hate me, I know that my friends love me, I know that I’m smart enough to figure out almost any problem at work (and if I can’t, we have a tool for that – it’s called starting a ticket.) I know all this. I know all this. I know the emotions aren’t real, that they bear absolutely no resemblence to logic or reality or facts.
This knowledge helps not at all.
So yeah, if I’m distant and uncommunicative on the weekends, or weepy and freaking out over nothing during work hours during the week… that’s why.