I went to the hospital a few hours ago to pick up a temporary prescription for anxiety meds I’ve gone back and forth about taking. I have nothing against medication but I know this ailment is not chemical and I’ve gone the natural route as long as I can. I just can’t afford another panic attack in mid-air. I would never fly again.

Everything after dinner tonight has been horrible. I felt inexplicably nervous. I cried. I could barely talk to April or Adina or my father on the phone. Basically, I’ve been on the verge of a panic attack all evening, most likely because I’m apprehensive about my flight tomorrow (I had my first panic attack on a plane to Boston from San Francisco in early January). Switzerland in late January was nerve-racking as shit but at least Tiff and Tara were there. I’m flying with my friend Gracye tomorrow and the girl has not seen me when I’m in bad shape. I already can tell that I’m going to be in bad shape.

In any case, I’m significantly better at the moment, and there is a bright side to my anxiety. On my way to the hospital, I kept saying to myself, “God I hate him for doing this.” It’s been months and those stupid photos still manifest themselves in the most inconvenient of ways. Then I realized that I actually don’t hate him. I don’t hate him at all anymore. As completely irritating as it is to be inexplicably frightened, panicked, and anxious, this is just a minor bump. This is a teensy setback. This is one bad day in an otherwise splendid life.

lenachen (back in January):

I hate him for doing this to me. I hate that he turned me into everything I’m not. I hate that I was a bitch throughout the holidays. I hate that I wouldn’t initially kiss the last guy I slept with. I hate that sometimes, the world feels like it’s caving in and I can’t breathe and I am inexplicably terrified and I think I’m going to die. I hate that he made me so angry with the world, so fed up with the unfairness of it all, so utterly unable to see the point in doing good when it seemed like all I ever received in return was bullshit. I hate all of that — because it’s not me. I’m not one to “hate” anything or anyone. I don’t want to hate the world’s insensitivity or even hate him. I want to forgive him, and hell, I think I do. I want to forgive the peers who don’t know any better than to forward my photos to each other. I don’t want to hold a grudge. I’m bigger than that.

It’s been a little over a month now and quite honestly, I’m fine. Even if I didn’t go through all of the aforementioned, I’m better than fine. I’m happy and my life is … fantastic. That’s why I blog so often on tumblr and post photos of my friends and write snippets about my utterly mundane day. I’m so grateful for my boring ass life and my great, reliable friends. I like flipping through the pages of my tumblr because it reminds me of the people and places and events that make life worth it. This is the life I love. I really write this thing for myself (which is why it’s all scrapbook, no titillation) and after all that I was put through, I think that I need to be a little selfish with my blogging nowadays. Instead of being others’ entertainment, I need to use it in a way that makes me feel good about me.

I’m sure the panic attacks will go away with time. I’m sure I won’t be this wary of men forever. I’m sure that my current good mood will only continue, maybe even grow. I am really happy right now and even if it gets harder to breathe sometimes, that’s something that he can’t take away from me. Everything’s okay. I’m okay. If I can survive this, I can survive anything. I’m a resilient motherfucker. I’m getting up in the morning.