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So, I’ve toughed it out through the bridal shower, to the immense relief of my daughter, my mother, and my sisters-in-law. The buildup and the aftermath are just the worst.

When I’m finally alone in the wake of all that highly traditional Southern flibbertygibbetry, the nightmare really begins. What did I do or say that made me look like a raving lunatic? I am certain that there’s something. That conversation that I had with my daughter’s coworker – I don’t really remember how that went. Oh, God. Was I making any sense? I was obviously not paying enough attention to her. Was I rude? Was she just being polite because I was clearly not in my right mind?

And on and on. So many people, so many conversations. I have this need to appear helpful – it puts me in control of the narrative. This anxiety, this depression, they are selfish illnesses. Even when I really do want to be helpful, sympathetic, and empathetic, it’s a means of putting myself at ease. I use the vulnerability of the other person to hide my own.

That makes me feel like a total shit. So I come from a bad place and move into a worse place. I can’t fully recall what I said to someone or what they said to me, and then I’m realizing that I’m a total shit. Or it feels like realizing it. If it’s the thought that counts, I’m a total shit. THEN the panic crawls in and takes over. There’s nothing I can do to fix whatever I might have said or done, so I just take the punishment of the panic attack. I’m alone with my dog, who is accustomed to the sobbing and screaming and outpouring of self-hatred that comes with the helplessness that is a panic attack. She knows it’s not about her. She is the sole beneficiary of my panic attacks.

In the lull that follows, when I’ve finally exhausted my capacity to punish myself and I can finally breathe, I treat that dog like a queen. I call it “happy hour.” She gets snacks, and I get an Olipop(sp?) – which used to be a beer or two, until that habit became a bigger problem. I toss out a toy for her, and she happily brings it back for a game of tug-of-war. It’s her coonhound version of fetch, and I indulge her. We might take a short walk if I have any energy left. She’s happy to take any walk, long or short. That’s also when I take a mental inventory of what doggie maintenance tasks need to be done. Brushing (who knew that a relatively short-haired dog could shed so copiously that balls of hair pile up in corners and under furniture within a couple of days at a time?), flea, tick and heartworm meds, ear examination and cleaning, and tooth care, such as it is. It’s not like she’s ever going to let me stick a toothbrush in her mouth. I have these dental wipes that I run over her front teeth. And a Greenie for her back teeth. That’s it. I remind myself that she’s going to need a full dental treatment soon. I run my hands over her body to check for injuries or inflammation of any of her cysts (benign, thank God). So I take care of one or two of those doggie needs while I’m coming down, and it helps.

Then I write. It’s my therapy while I’m not trusting therapists.