Last night, I came home from work (early) with one of those horrible chest squeezing attacks of anxiety that made me feel as though my head was going to explode and some futuristic anime robot would emerge from the remains of my skull and open fire on the innocent bystanders. I went immediately to bed and hoped that burying my face in my pillow would somehow help. PT came in and asked if he could do anything, through my tears I said, "valium" in a quivering voice. He brought me my dose of "sanity in a bottle" and let me be for a while.
After the valium had set in, I asked if we could get drunk and have a "relationship talk". He immediately said, "You hate me."
"Of course I don't hate you, I just have some things that I need to GET OUT OF MY BRAIN so I can stop the needless freakouts."
We ended up on opposite ends of the house on our computers sending IMs back and forth. There were shots of Jack Daniels, cigarettes and fuzzy kitties in our laps. As true technophiles, we seem to communicate better via the electronic medium than face to face, which seems to end up with me sobbing and hurling objects around. Who knows why, but it works. The robot is back in place and there IS joy in Mudville.
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