Anxiety sucks. With all of the details and checklists for my book, I think my brain went into overload. Too many things needing to be done, and it feels like it all has to be done right now.
Last weekend, I woke up to a helluva panic attack. I mean, clutch your chest, holla out “Elizabeth!” panic attack. I couldn’t breathe, my chest felt like it was going to burst, and I had trouble speaking for a little while. It was bad.
Now, I come from a long line of alcoholics, pill poppers, and relatives with a tendency towards chemical dependencies. I’m no stranger to seeing addiction in action. So, I have a few issues when it comes to taking my medication. I joke around about it, but the truth is I have a fear of being an addict.
It’s not cute.
Oh, my friend, but on that day…Gracias a Dios por los pastillas. There’s only been one time in my life that I understood the enthrallment of drugs and it was after 32 hours of labor. (I secretly still love the man who gave me my epidural. Sorry, babe.)
Dr says learn to control my stress. My hubby’s advice is slow the hell down and stop feeling guilty about taking bubble baths.