Do You Experience Feelings Of Dread In Your Basement Or Attic?

Sometimes I get awful blogger's block, because there's only one thing I want to write about, and yet I have no earthly wish to write about that one thing. And yet I can't write about anything else until I've written about that one thing. And so on.

(NB This is how you got treated to the 'synaesthetic orgasms' post a few months back, for which I am sure you are all profoundly grateful, especially my dad.)

So for a few days I've been thinking that I *must* write a post about my terrible panic attacks, because having terrible panic attacks is taking up an inordinate amount of my time at the moment, and I thought maybe I could exorcise them by writing about them on my blog, and then I wouldn't have to go back on the medication.

I think the panic attacks are there to make up for the fact that by some idiosyncrasy of nature, I am never physically ill. I haven't been ill - not really ill - for almost as long as I can remember. I last had a day off work sick in 1995. This worries me, because it surely means that Fate has some terrible Dorian Gray-esque physical affliction in store for me which may strike me at any time, if I'm not super-vigilant.

But anyway. The panic attacks. It would be nice if just for once, just for one day, I could go out, go on the bus, go on the tube, go for a walk, go into a meeting, go to the pub, go anywhere where there are other people and no immediately obvious escape route, without panicking. Without getting tenser and tenser and more and more frightened until I think I'm going to collapse, or somehow melt, or throw up, or all my limbs are going to fly off if I don't get out of there really, really quickly.

I don't want to go back on the medication, but sometimes it seems inevitable.

Sigh.

Anyway. This post doesn't have a point, other than that now I've written it I can write about other things again. Like Ghostbusters. I'll probably write about Ghostbusters next. That'll be better.

Phew.

This Flight Is Making Me Afraid

The flight to Montpellier was possibly the worst I’ve ever taken, as I was beset the entire way by barely controllable panic attacks. The sort that make you think the same terrible thoughts over and over again, until your scalp crawls with fear, your hands go numb, your heart’s beating like a fucked clock and you can no longer feel your legs:

Oh my God, I’m in an aeroplane, I can’t get out.

OH GOD I CAN’T GET OUT

That noise doesn’t sound normal.

Oh God, make that noise stop.

Oh God, the noise has stopped. We must be going to crash.

OH GOD WE’RE GOING TO CRASH

It’s abnormally hot in here.

OH GOD THE PLANE MUST BE ON FIRE

I can’t die now, I haven’t deciphered the Pictish Ogham inscriptions.

OH GOD I CAN’T GET OUT AND I’M GOING TO DIE AND I HAVEN’T EVEN FORMALLY REFUTED DR RICHARD COX’S THEORIES ABOUT THE PICTISH OGHAM INSCRIPTIONS

I’m going to be sick now. That will be embarrassing.

OH GOD I’M GOING TO BE SICK

Oh Jesus, I can’t get out.

OH GOD I CAN’T GET OUT AND I’M GOING TO BE SICK

And so it went on, and on, for two interminable hours. Matters were not helped by my travelling companion (in the sense that he was sitting next to me), Barry from Essex, who insisted on soliciting my opinion for the entire duration of the flight on how he could best market his wholesale commercial lighting business.

Barry, it doesn’t matter. WE’RE GOING TO DIE. WE CAN’T GET OUT. I’M GOING TO BE SICK. YOUR WHOLESALE COMMERCIAL LIGHTING BUSINESS IS THE LEAST OF OUR WORRIES.

Fortunately we made it to Montpellier without mishap, I wasn’t sick and no one – to my knowledge – died during the flight.

Perhaps because of this pseudo near-death experience, I am having one of the best times in France that I’ve ever had. The countryside around my house is stunningly beautiful. I’ve seen the low winter sun rise over the frost-encrusted vineyards and the Iron Age oppidum* that caps the hill opposite. I’ve seen the low winter sun set in a rust-coloured glow over the first foothills of the Cévennes. I’ve bought an incredibly girly teapot. I’ve been having a really good laugh with my Mum. I’m very happy.

To allow you to share in this unexpected joy, here is a video for a lovely song by Icelandic indie piano popstrels Ampop.

And a very merry Christmas to one and all!


* The perspicacious among you may have noticed that living beneath Iron Age hillforts is the sort of thing I do.