My mother’s curse.

I thought I had managed to dodge my mother’s curse. I had reached the age of forty-one without it wielding its pervasive and cruel force against my head, and heart. I rejoiced in the fact that I had avoided it.

A week ago I got my first panic attack. So fierce in its symptoms that I drove myself to the ER because I thought I was having a heart attack. After thorough blood tests, an x-ray, a stress test and an ultrasound of my heart I was sent home with no conclusive reason for the chest pain that prompted the panic attack.

It’s been a struggle ever since. I think my mother board has been fried in that first panic attack. I have been experiencing anxiety ever since, coming in on me wave after hideous wave.

It’s been a week now since my attack. The anxiety is lessening, but it hasn’t ceased. I wonder if I will ever reach homeostasis again (my cousin’s wording for it).

My mother has it, my aunt has it, my cousins have it….the anxiety is strong in my family. And yet, I thought I had dodged the bullet. But after years of dealing with intense stressors of all sorts, I think my brain has finally hit the proverbial wall.

I’m going to do what is necessary to try to reach that level of homeostasis again. I’ll be starting therapy, yoga, deep breathing, homeopathic meds…anything not to be overpowered by my synapsis that have decided to misfire at Mach 10.

Or, if all that fails, I’ll do what my cousin suggested. “Take the motherfucking Xanax.”

Damn my mother’s curse.

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