You asked for it, you got it

I’ve received a few messages (okay, meaning two) requesting that I post more stories of my relatable experiences with intrusive thoughts, so with some reservation I’ve decided to share what happened to me last night.

I was exhausted from a new medication dosage and ended up sleeping from about 6 to 8 p.m.  As is usual for me, this sleep was filled with violent, disturbing nightmares, and also as usual, I woke up shaking, drenched in sweat, feeling like there was a crushing weight on my chest.  Then for some reason I started thinking about ways people die, and why people are more afraid of some causes of death than others.

Specifically, I wondered why people are more terrified of dying in flames than of dehydration, which is a much more protracted experience.

And all was well with those thoughts until I remembered a movie from a few years back called Ladder 49, in which Joaquin Phoenix gets trapped in a burning building and calls off the rescue operations because he doesn’t want his fellow firefighters to die in the futile attempt.  I wondered if I would have the courage to do the same.

And there went the thoughts.  Suddenly, in a matter of seconds, I became utterly convinced that my apartment was about to catch fire and burn me alive.  I knew beyond a doubt that I had to get out of there, but at the same time, I knew that I had to be there to save my beloved cat and my family photos and my laptop.  I lay in bed feeling paralyzed, not knowing what to do, for over an hour.

Perhaps this was substantiated by an electric fire in a neighboring apartment building, where my mother lived, a year and a half ago.  Perhaps it was spurred by my childhood obsessive fear of spontaneous combustion.  I don’t really know, I just know that it felt as real as anything around me, all of which, including my own self, felt less and less real.

Even as convinced as I was, there was still a cold, logical part of me that knew I was being irrational, and this only made it more painful because I felt so ashamed and frustrated at not being able to control my thoughts.  Luckily, after enough time had passed, that part of me induced me to seek help.  I texted Person of Interest and we were able to video chat for a couple of hours, until I felt distracted; he even managed to make me smile, which is a special superpower he possesses.  He helped me to put my thoughts in perspective and remember how to deal with them.  As I sometimes do, I was able to envision locking the thoughts in a safe deep in my mind and building brick walls around them until I felt slightly less controlled by them.

Of course, my inner narrator, of whom I’ve spoken in a recent post, made all of this much more difficult.  She was talking to me, describing the whole thing at every turn, murmuring things like, “The apartment is about to burn down.  She knows she should get out but she’s too stupid and cowardly.  She’s going to burn alive because she’s so stupid and lazy.” How do you cope if the extra person inside you, who knows your every thought, predicts your imminent demise with such clarity and conviction?

But at the same time, I think she, the Narrator, helped to create the resourcefulness that allowed me to keep a little perspective and seek help.  I’ve grown so used to her over the past 25 or so years, so used to recognizing her as unreal, that I’ve developed an intensely skeptical attitude toward pretty much everything.  Show me the evidence or GTFO, and there was no empirical evidence to support my claim of immediate danger.  I’ve always cultivated this side of myself because it’s served me well– certainly not in relating to a community, but definitely in creating a separate area of my mind that analyzes and criticizes itself at all times, inducing a scientific, doubtful frame of mind.  Were it not for the unexpected power of this part of me, I don’t know what I would have done.

Still, despite all that, I kept getting up to check that the stove was off– rattle each knob five times, then say “Goodbye, Mr. Stove” and soon do it all again– as well as unplugging all the lights and electronics, despite my terror of the dark, because frankly being attacked by an intruder or supernatural being seemed less horrible than being burned alive at random.  I was in agony, much more so than any physical pain I’ve ever experienced.  I have a special ability to consciously control my own heart rate, but only when I can focus intensely, and so even that wasn’t helpful with such distracting litanies occupying my brain. 

I hyperventilated and had cringeworthy heart palpitations and, again, felt like an anvil was on my chest and pressing my shoulders into the bed.  Every muscle in my body was tensed to the extreme.  It felt like every neuron in my brain was firing and frying; I didn’t know what was real; I couldn’t control myself; the cognitive strain seemed to induce an indescribable migraine in which everything I saw swam about randomly, my ears rang deafeningly, and a specific spot in my head endured a sharp, focused pain.  The narrator whispered, “She’s going crazy.  She’s broken.  Her mind is broken.  She thinks these things are real.  She’s lost it.”

After I talked to Person of Interest (who is fantastic at making me feel better, but talking to someone else I trusted would also have worked well) I laid back down and thought I would go to sleep, when I suddenly remembered that after using mascara (which I very rarely do) a few days ago, some of my eyelashes– maybe half a dozen– had fallen off when I washed my face.  I panicked and worried that there was some disease on the mascara that was going to make all of my eyelashes fall out while I slept.  I kept having to check my eyelashes by touch at one minute intervals, and after every three checks, I had to go turn on the bathroom light and scrutinize them in the mirror to make sure they were okay.  I vaguely remembered reading the story of a girl who suddenly lost all her hair at age 11, and was mortified to imagine walking around with no eyelashes, as much an object of ridicule as I already am. 

Fortunately, in this case, I was able to reattribute my thoughts and distract myself with 5 episodes of 30 Rock, because the skeptic in me knew how absurd the fear was.

I like to think I’ve gained some control over the way I react to panic attacks and intrusive thoughts, but the fact is that the sensations of the thoughts, the physical symptoms, are still ever-present and seemingly intolerable.  Over the past few months, in which I’ve had to work myself down from panic attacks multiple times per week (sometimes multiple times per day) I’ve even learned to consciously control my heart rate (I know, pretty awesome, right?) but it only works when I can focus exclusively on it.  My narrator has both made matters worse, and helped me develop rock-solid defense mechanisms.

Frankly, it’s fucking confusing.  I’m used to understanding and adjusting to the mood-based tricks my brain plays on me, and addressing irrational anxiety.  But over the last six to eight months, and particularly a difficult time I went through several weeks ago (not to say it was wrong or intolerable; any other factor could equally have triggered the same result) I’ve begun to break.  Like a piece of aluminum sheeting that’s been bent back and forth so much that it’s not quite severed yet, but the stress has begun to show clearly on it; it’s grown thin and weak. 

That’s how I am.  I am a camel’s back waiting for a straw.  I am a storm waiting for a butterfly to flap its wings.  I don’t know what’s happening.  I have cocooned inside my own mind, and the thoughts there seem more real, more concrete, than anything outside myself.  And yet I have protected this small part of me from the deluge.  Who can explain it?  Not I.  To break, I was fragile to begin with, but why?  Why did I have to quit university?  Why am I unable to work?  Why am I who– no, what— I am?  The question frightens me.  I have to walk away from it now, before it scares me more.

I hope this story, as painful as it is to share, is helpful to one or more people out there.  Cheers.

ETA:  It’s been brought to my attention that this post is slightly incoherent and somewhat redundant.  I do apologize for the problem, but I haven’t the capacity to rewrite it in a better manner right now.  I hope it will still be helpful.

Edited for grammar and coherence 9/10 –mhc

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3 thoughts on “You asked for it, you got it

  1. mckarlie says:

    It sounds as though you consider your “narrator” as an outside intruder, how do you view it? To me this sounds a lot like you’re on your way down, sometimes we need to hit new lows before we can muster the strength to do anything about our predicament. I’ve ‘broken’ to the point of being in a mental institution under heavy sedation on suicide watch so i understand feeling out of control.

    • Thanks for your comment! The best way I can describe the narrator is like a whisper in my brain that feels as though it’s been transmitted there from somewhere else (not saying I believe that is the case, just that that’s how I’d describe the sensation.) Like she’s inside me but not a part of me. Until recently I’d never thought or talked that much about the subject, so I’m still trying to get a handle on it.

      Much like you, I have been forcibly hospitalized under suicide watch, so I am sorry you had to go through that and that you reached that low. I hope very much that I don’t have to go through that specific form of torture again anytime soon. I hope you are right that there will be an “up” after all this “down” 🙂

      • mckarlie says:

        I used to have a very strong voice, i felt as if it was almost external to myself. it was a source of constant negativity and badgering. thankfully since i’ve been on my current cocktail of meds i’ve been better able to fight the voice but it’s still there waiting on my demise. i’m sorry you’ve been through that as well, it’s not a nice place but sometimes necessary unfortunately.

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