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The panic files



Panic — out with it

From a notebook, 8 April 2006, Kilkenny Ireland
I'm not well inside. I'm suffering from too many panic attacks to leave life enjoyable.

My fear and stress in social situations can be so severe that I don't know what to do. A bail for escape seems sometimes an option. Go out, leave the room.

Sometimes — in a car, for example — I have nowhere to go.

A foggy numbing buzz came over me yesterday coming back from Urlingford.

I want physical affection. My body needs to be loved. I need to touch.

Boy, I'll tell ya, panic is not depression.

Depression has its charms; it can be melancholic, beautiful in its way; poetic, even.

Panic is abject. Panic, angular, sharp, overlording.

The hazy foggy buzz of panic, the disembodied numbness, the irrational fear that propagates itself. A fear, and then its own fear of itself.

I don't know where it comes from. I do recognize a few general triggers. Kim was associated with the first one. Maybe her friendship is that important to me.

Enough crying, and the fear goes away. But I know it will be back.

Stress in the morning is a trigger.

The way I let people treat me creates a trigger.

Walking amongst Irish women is a trigger. Anger, certainly, is a trigger. Self-righteous rage — in other words, self-replicating anger — is definitely a trigger.

Strong feelings. Uncertainty how to apply them live with them express them.

Getting old.


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