Making It to the Sink: A Panic Attack in Three Acts

Act One: The Invitation

      Some time ago, I recieved an invitation from a friend of mine to go out to the grand opening of the newest Dallas hot spot, Vibe Lounge, (Note: Vibe is a name I've created, as to not hurt the feelings of the real Dallas hot spot we attended) with him . He sounded super excited, make that uber excited, about the event. Why he wanted me of all people to accompany him on this grand evening remains a mystery to me to this day. See, I don't like going to clubs. Or lounges. Or bars. Or whatever the cool kids are calling them these days. I've been to clubs and bars before, and I stick out like a sore thumb. I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't like dancing with sweaty people I don't know. So what is the point of me going? There is none, really.
     Despite great resistance on my part, my overly enthusiastic friend, let's call him Jay, finally wore me down with his persistence. I had to go, he insisted over and over again, I just had to. I would look like a total loser if I didn't go. "Jay," I insisted,"I am a loser. I'm okay with being a loser. Losers get to stay home and eat Oreos and watch tv and wear slippers with Homer Simpson heads on them." A somewhat stupefied silence followed this disclosure, then a hurried "Ok, great, I'll pick you up at 11 on Saturday!"
   I was left holding the phone in my hand, trying to remember if I had actually agreed to go or not. I was pretty sure I'd said I wanted to stay home. It had seemed as if Jay had been completely embarrassed by my confession of my loser lifestyle, which completely puzzled me. What's not to like about Oreos and Homer Simpson slippers? And wait, had he said he'd pick me up at 11? 11 pm? That was about an hour past my bed time. I sighed with a bitter finality. It looked as if my peaceful, happy existence in Loserland was about to end.
  
      Act Two: The Anticipation

           Three days had passed since Jay's infamous invitation, and the dreaded day had finally arrived. I'd been receiving numerous text messages in the past three days from him exuberantly exclaiming how much fun we were going to have. The latest message in my inbox said "We r going to have a BADAZZ NITE!!!!!!!!!" I really didn't feel that that statement warranted so many exclamation points.
     The truth is, I was growing increasingly nervous even thinking about going out to what promised to be a very loud, crowded, smoky place. I'm not comfortable in huge crowds. Cigarette smoke usually makes me sick. And extremely loud music usually leaves me deaf for days. Like I said, I'm a loser.
   I had sneaked a peek at the club's (lounge? bar? whatever) website and had ascertained that extremely loud music, crowds, and ample amounts of cigarette smoke would all be there in abundance. Apparently a few famous football players, rap stars, and one very famous DJ (who looked quite full of himself, if I do say so myself) would all be there in abundance as well. The website screamed that I couldn't miss out on "The Hottest Night In Dallas!!!!!!!!" Again with all the unwarranted exclamation points.
   As the clock ticked mercilessly on, my nerves began to increase in leaps and bounds. Was I nervous about going out? No. Was I nervous about what people would think of me? No. Was I nervous about what to wear? Nope. The only thing I'm ever really nervous about is having a panic attack in front of people. I mean, this was apparently the "hottest night in dallas". What if I had a panic attack in front of the very famous DJ? Apparently he was flying in all the way from West Hollywood!
   You see, panic attacks and social anxiety are very tricky things. They are different with each individual that suffers from them. The symptoms are usually different. The triggers are usually different. But they have one thing in common: they're embarrassing. I'd be extremely surprised if I ever met a social anxiety sufferer who proclaimed "I'm not embarrassed by my anxiety attacks! I wear them proudly on my sleeve! I can't wait for the next one!"
   You can't control how your body reacts to social anxiety. Even if your mind isn't nervous, your body is, and it starts doing all sorts of embarrassing things. For all three (am I being too optimistic?) of you who've read my previous entries, you'll remember that the defining symptom of my social anxiety-related  attacks are uncontrollable bouts of gagging. Yes, gagging, like when you go to the dentist and he sticks that mirror thing all the way down your throat and then says "So, how has your day been going?" and you try to answer but instead all that comes out is a big bullfrog gag.
   It may be gross, but hey, welcome to my world. Chronic gagging may be the worst part, but there are other parts too. Chills, cramping, feeling faint and/or fainting and vomiting are all part of the wonderful world of anxiety attacks. Is it any wonder I like to stay home and watch Friends re-runs in my Homer Simpson slippers?
   I feel inclined to add that, aside from wasps and mall Santa Clauses, vomiting is my greatest fear in the entire universe. I've never understood people who can drink and drink and drink knowing they are going to vomit later. Throwing up simply terrifies me. My cat throws up quite frequently, and let me tell you, you'd be terrified of vomiting too if you saw my cat toss his cookies. (Or cat treats, as the case may be.)
   So back to that mercilessly ticking clock. It was now around 9:30 and I figured I'd better start getting ready for The Hottest Night In Dallas. After all, I didn't want to look like a frump in front of the West Hollywood DJ. I rummaged in my closet and threw on the skimpiest dress I could find, along with some very tall silver heels. I looked fairly presentable, but this meant I would be freezing, considering it was February, but no one wears a sweater to a club. That would really make me look like a loser.
  I began applying gobs of makeup as my nerves accelerated. One minute I was freezing, and the next minute I felt like I was trapped in an oven. This made me even more nervous because of course I recognized the by-now classic symptoms of an anxiety attack. I stole a glance in the mirror. Yikes. My hand had been shaking so badly as I applied my lipstick that I now resembled Bozo the Clown, or worse, Lindsay Lohan's latest mugshot. Not exactly the look I'd been aiming for.
   I was just about to wipe it off and reapply when my phone rang. It was Jay, my ever-persistent friend. "Hello?" I answered, not entirely surprised at how timid my voice sounded. "Hey girl!" Jay shouted into my ear. He sounded as if he was swinging from a chandelier at a New Year's Eve party. "You ready to rock and roll?" he yelled into the phone. "I was hoping you'd forgot," I admitted pathetically. "Huh?" Jay yelled into the phone again,"I can't hear you, sweetcheeks!" Sweetcheeks? I decided to ignore this particular comment.
  "I said, I was hoping you'd forgotten about tonight!" I yelled into the receiver. "I'm just, I'm feeling kind of nervous and-" "Girl!" Jay shouted, even more loudly this time,"We're at your door! Open up!" He hung up. I stared at the phone, dumbfounded and in a full-tilt panic. "We?" Who was "we"? I'd thought it was just going to be the two of us! Now he was bringing an entourage?
  I grabbed my purse and threw open the door. Jay, dressed head to toe in expensive designer labels, was surrounded by an entourage of about eight people. I cannot imagine being so popular. "Yo! Gang!" Jay shouted, gesturing to the entourage, all who consisted of very tanned, very tall people with ample amounts of hair gel. "This is Chels!" The entourage let out a roar of approval. Did I mention I hate it when people call me "Chels"?

      Act Three: Making It to the Sink

    I nervously followed Jay and the entourage outside, where a sleek black limo was purring curbside. A limo? Were we going to the prom? I clambered in after the entourage. My hands were extremely sweaty, yet I felt freezing. My heart was pounding. Now that I wasn't taking my own car, how would I ever be able to leave if I wanted to?
   "Wow," said a girl sitting next to me, "Wow." I turned. "Um. Hello." She held out an orange hand. She was so tan it was almost past orange. Her false eyelashes were so long they were almost touching my face. She was strangely fascinating to behold. "I'm Brandi. You look exactly like Lindsay Lohan." Crap. I'd forgotten to wipe off my Lindsay Lohan mugshot lipstick. "Thank you," I said, still staring, captivated at the length of her fake nails. "And you look exactly like...um...a.." I wasn't sure what to say, but I didn't think "Hollywood Boulevard hooker" would be appropriate.
   "An angel!" Jay shouted, protruding an arm from nowhere and wrapping it around Brandi and her ample cleavage, "She looks exactly like an angel!" I mouthed wordlessly, then nodded firmly. "Yes, she does. She really does." Brandi appeared genuinely touched.
   The limo stopped suddenly, and I felt extremely light-headed. I began shivering uncontrollably. And then...the inevitable. A gag. Oh no! I glanced around, mortified. The entourage were piling out of the limo up a red carpet leading into a very swank looking club. Jay and Brandi were stumbling up the carpet, wrapped around each other. Apparently I was left to fend for myself.
   Before I could stop it, another gag reached the surface. Yikes! I hobbled up the red carpet, past several intimidating doormen wearing imposing sunglasses. Inside the club, clones of Brandi and Jay were everywhere, dancing and standing around. The place was elbow-to-elbow packed. Clouds of cigarette smoke hung over everyone's heads. Cigarette smoke really makes me ill. My eyes began to water immediately and I started hacking away. A couple of my hacking coughs turned into bullfrog gags. I clapped my hand over my mouth in a panic.
   Suddenly, an arm snaked around my shoulders. I looked up. I was completely bewildered to discover that the very famous West Hollywood DJ was standing right next to me, his tattooed arm wrapped around me tightly. "Hey beautiful," he said, as if we'd known each other for centuries, "What are you doin' tonight?"
  I was at a complete loss of what to say. What was I doin' tonight? Well, I was here, wasn't I? Wasn't this what I was doin' tonight? I noticed that quite a few Brandi clones were beginning to eye me viciously. This made my panic increase tenfold. I hadn't had any intention of angering an army of Brandi clones! I had an urge to wave my hands wildly and yell "I'm sorry! I don't even know this guy! I don't care if he's from West Hollywood! He's not even cute! And he has an extremely tacky tattoo of an evil pumpkin covering his entire arm! He's all yours, ladies!"
  However, I was terrified if I opened my mouth at all either a) the loudest bullfrog gag ever would emerge, or b) I would throw up, because I was now beginning to feel extremely nauseous. The famous DJ started whispering in my ear. Wait, he licked my ear! Ick! I wrenched myself away. The stench of cigarette smoke and sweat surrounded me. I hadn't had anything to eat in hours. My shoes were killing me. I gagged. I saw little black dots dancing in front of my face. My stomach rumbled dangerously. Oh no. I clapped my hand to my mouth desperately once again. Bathroom. Must find bathroom.
  There! Over there! Next to that imposing bouncer with Gucci sunglasses! I hobbled in the direction of the bathroom as fast as I could, which wasn't very fast, considering my ridiculous shoes were giving me blisters. I pushed open the bathroom door. In the mirror, I saw my reflection. I looked ghastly. My face had a distinct greenish tinge to it. Lovely. I stood in the middle of the bathroom, and remembered that I had no getaway car since I'd come in a limo with an entourage of orange people. The thought made me feel breathless with panic. I pushed a girl away from the sink. I took a deep breath, and then...Vomit City.
   My ultimate fear had been realized. I was tossing my cookies. In front of everyone. At least I made it to the sink. "Ewww!" The girl I'd shoved out of the way gasped. It was Brandi. She looked absolutely horrified. I couldn't really blame her. "How disgusting!" she continued. She turned to the girl next to her. "You know, she doesn't look that much like Lindsay Lohan after all!"
    Even through my panicky haze, I was a little insulted. Isn't that what Lindsay is always doing in the magazines? Throwing up in clubs? Now I was just like her! I pulled my hair back and tossed up some more gunk. It was quite disgusting, I must say. On shaky legs, I finally wiped my face off and sat down on the bathroom floor. I let out a huge sigh. From now on, I was going to stay in Loserland with Homer and my Oreos. Permanently.

A Date With Tom Cruise

A couple of nights ago I was out to dinner with a girl friend of mine and, to my complete surprise, she brought along an unexpected guest: a pudgy fellow who, according to the discreet text message she sent me under the table, was my "perfect match". I immediately knew that there was no way this could be true, as the young man was wearing a t-shirt with the name of a band on it that I absolutely detest. However, my good mother always taught me to be polite when meeting new people, so I agreed to give the poor guy a chance.
  I asked him some polite questions about the weather. He responded with an airy "Oh, Texas weather. I'm so over it." I wasn't quite sure what to say to this so I asked him some more polite questions, inquiring as to what his hobbies were, what he did for a living, et cetera. As he responded to my questions, with increasingly long, drawn-out, pretentious, and self-absorbed answers, I began to stare at him in wonder. "What a piece of work," I thought, pizza halfway to my mouth. "This fellow hasn't asked me a single question about myself the entire night."
  I had firmly decided that Mr. Pudge could not possibly become any more annoying when I discovered an entirely unpleasant fact about my new friend. Something that immediately crushed any chance we may have had together. (Truthfully, he never had a chance. As soon as he made that oh-so-cool comment about the weather I knew it was over.)  The unpleasant fact I discovered? He was a Tom. I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised. I probably should've been able to tell by his lengthy description of his mission in life: "to reject and reform modern society". (What does that mean? You've got me.) Most hippies and/or so called "artsy" people happen to be Toms. I've grown used to this fact. It's just the way life is.
   By this point you're probably scratching your head and thinking "What on earth is a 'Tom'"? Let me clue you in. Remember in 2005 when Tom Cruise officially went off his rocker? There was the couch-jumping incident, the marrying a girl 25 years younger than him incident, the feud with his movie studio incident, there were a whole lotta incidents for Tom in 2005. However, my personal favorite is The Feud With Brooke Shields Incident. If you're completely ignorant of celebrity culture, let me give you a brief outline of what occurred in that fateful year of 2005. Ms. Shields came out with a book detailing her struggles with post-partum depression. In the book, she credited the anti-depressant drug Paxil, plus weekly sessions with a therapist, for helping her to overcome her life-threatening depression. Ms. Shields said that at one point she was so depressed and anxious she considered taking her own life, as well as her newborn baby's.
    Now why did Tom Cruise feel the need to poke his (in my opinion) overly-large nose into Brooke Shields's business? That's anyone's guess. (I do have a few theories, but I'll save them for another time. One of them is downright scandalous.) For some unfathomable reason, Tom was suddenly making the media rounds babbling on and on and on (and on) about what horrible life choices Brooke Shields was making. He was on tv, he was in the newspaper, he was everywhere, telling everyone, that Brooke had made a dangerous and terrible decision in taking anti-depressant medications. Tom then made his infamous appearance on the Today Show with Matt Lauer. (If you haven't seen the Tom vs. Matt smackdown, I'd highly suggest you youtube it immediately.)
   Matt asked Tom what was so wrong with Brook Shields taking anti-depressants, and Tom, well, he went a little crazy. Actually, he went a whole lot of crazy. Tom blasted Brooke, and Matt, for using modern medications. (Note: Tom is a Scientologist, and the Church of Scientology doesn't believe in medication or psychiatric treatment for mental disorders.) Tom insisted, very firmly, (so firmly, in fact, that he was literally leaning off his seat and repeatedly jabbing a finger forcefully into Matt's face, to this day I'm surprised Matt managed to keep both of his eyeballs) that Brooke's depression was all in her head, and that if only she would take vitamins, exercise daily, and think positive thoughts she would be cured. Poof! Instantly. Matt and Tom continued to get into a very heated argument, Tom repeatedly insisting that putting a person on medications for a mental disorder such as depression is wrong, because the problem is all in said person's head, and medication simply masks the problem and makes them a weaker individual.
   The best part of the whole incident was when Ms. Shields published a letter in the New York Times criticizing Tom. (My personal favorite line was when she expressed doubt that Tom had ever suffered from post-partum depression.) Apparently Tom has since apologized to Ms. Shields, and acknowledged that he was out of line with his comments. But he still firmly maintains his beliefs that taking medication to treat a mental disorder is wrong, and that most disorders can be cured by vitamins and happy, sparkly thoughts.
   So what has yours truly gleaned from the infamous battle between Tom and Brooke? Well, I've learned that there are two kinds of people out there: there are people who believe in medication and therapy, and then there are the Toms. To be honest, I hate Toms. Toms annoy the heck out of me. I suppose this is partly because every Tom I've ever met (and I've had the good fortune to meet quite a few of them) has never admitted to struggling with any kind of mental problem, be it ADD, OCD, PTSD, GAD, depression, panic disorder, and, my personal favorite, social anxiety disorder.
    The Toms I've met are all completely and utterly normal. They belong to a strange segment of the population that I like to refer to as the Normal People. Toms have nothing wrong with them. Well, not health-wise anyway. However, most Toms that I've encountered are judgy, holier-than-thou, and completely unwilling to try and understand something that they just can't imagine invading their perfect normal little worlds.
    Toms look down on people who take medications or who are in therapy because they think a) people who have disorders are either trying to get attention, hypochondriacs, or simply weak individuals, and b) they think therapy is silly and expensive. (Which is half-way true. Psychiatrists should be arrested for robbing the public blind.) I'll be frank and admit that my parents are largely Toms. I love my parents more than anything in this world, but they do have a tendency to promote exercise and positive thinking over taking medications.
   I admire them for those suggestions, because they're true. Exercising and practicing positive thinking are both very important when a person has an anxiety disorder or depression. I'm trying to incorporate both into my battle against social anxiety disorder. (The exercise part is still very much a work in progress.) However, I firmly believe that taking certain medications is vital to my well-being. I agree that medications are not for everyone. There are a lot of folks out there who haven't tried any other methods of getting better, and are just eager to get their fill of pills. These people are just lazy when it comes to taking care of themselves, in my opinion.
   Then there are people who do have a disorder such as social anxiety disorder, but their conditon isn't effecting their life in a way that they need to take a prescription drug. I used to consider myself one of those people, but that was when I was in the denial stage. My denial stage ended when I woke up and realized one day that having severe, uncontrollable gagging attacks before social events, as well as before simple day-to-day events, wasn't quite normal.
    I've tried several different medications, in different dosages, and some of them have worked and some of them haven't. I'll be honest and say that currently my doctor (a very nice, educated woman, definitely not a Tom) has me taking Lexapro, an anti-anxiety/anti-depressant, and clonazepam, a muscle relaxant. So far I've found that both medications have seemed to be helping with my attacks. However, I agree that I can't simply swallow the pills every day and expect my social anxiety and panic attacks to go away. I need to take care of myself in other ways, too, just like my wise parents suggested. I believe that if a person is struggling with an anxiety disorder or depression they need to be taking the proper medication under a doctor's supervision, as well as stay active, avoid triggers, and eat a healthy diet. (I'm working on the healthy diet part. Homer Simpson once said donuts are healthy because they have purple sprinkles on them, and purple's a fruit right? So far I'm sticking with Homer.)
   Let's go back and visit with my new friend, Mr. Pudge, and when I discovered that he was a Tom. I had casually mentioned that I enjoyed writing, and managed to slip in the fact that I write a blog. Pudge asked me(yes, he actually stopped patting himself on the back for his many accomplishments long enough to ask me a question) what the blog was about, and I explained that it was about my struggles with social anxiety. What followed was a very long silence. I took this to mean that Pudge had no idea what social anxiety meant, so I hastily tried to explain. I informed him that I wanted to help other people with anxiety disorders, as well as people with depression, by letting them know that they aren't alone and they shouldn't think of themselves as freaks. "The Normal People are the freaks in my opinion," I told him, nodding firmly.
   Pudge considered me for a moment. "I was depressed for two years in high school," he said, in a tone that suggested I should ask him for all the gritty details. I admit I was a tad curious. "Really?" I asked, leaning in eagerly. Maybe I had judged Pudge too fast. Maybe he was one of Us, and not one of those infuriating Normal People. "Yeah," he said, leaning back in his chair, and getting a far-away look in his squinty little eyes,"Yeah I was. It was real bad." I began to feel guilty for judging Pudge purely on his band t-shirt. "I'm sure that was hard for you," I said empathetically,"What happened? Did someone close to you pass away?"
   The serious tone of the conversation was abruptly cut off by a loud guffaw from Pudge. "Huh?", he asked looking totally confused. (Truthfully, he had looked totally confused during the entire dinner. I assumed that was his natural facial expression.) He laughed heartily. "Aw man, it was nothin' like that! I just started listening to a lot of sad goth music and got real depressed." He stopped laughing suddenly, his expression turning somber. "But it was bad, dude. Real bad."
   I tried to collect myself. "So, you were depressed? Did you get any help?" His signature confused expression had returned. "Help?" he asked, "Whaddya mean help?" I felt that maybe I wasn't speaking clearly or loudly enough. "Did you see a doctor? Take any medicine to help you get better?" I said in a loud voice.
   Pudge eyed me over his beer glass. (I think this was his third beer? His fourth? I'd lost count some time ago.) "Depressed people are full of sh*t," he informed me, in a tone that suggested this was the Law of the Land. "They need to get over themselves." I felt a prickle of irritation. "Not all people who are depressed or overly anxious or panicky can just snap their fingers and feel better," I said icily.
  Pudge downed a swig from his glass. "Nah, that's not true," he said, as if speaking to someone who was very slow,"Sure they can. When I was depressed, I didn't have to take meds or nothin'. That sh*t clouds your mind. Hides your true essence."
    I briefly imagined what the bowl of marinara sauce in front of me would look like splashed all over Pudge's head. I liked the idea of dumping it on him and taking off. Relished it, actually. Somehow, I managed to restrain myself. "What do you mean your true essence?" I asked. "Are you saying you don't believe in medication for people with mental issues?"
   He nodded sagely. "I got over my issues by telling myself to get the f*ck over it. Other people should do that, too. People who take medications are just clouding their mind. They can't really commune with their true essence." He took a long swig of beer. "It's lame. They're lame."
   Pudge had officially crossed the line from self-absorbed idiot to something even worse: a Tom. I can't stand to be in the presence of Toms. Especially drunk, wanna-be hippie Toms. I grabbed my cell phone. "You know what? I have to go. I'm sorry. Emergency. My dog hasn't been let out for hours." I said a quick goodbye to my very confused girl friend and ran to my car as fast as my legs could carry me. (Which wasn't very fast, due to my not having really been keeping up with my exercise routine. I was completely out of breath by the time I reached the car.)
   The next day my girl friend called me. "I can't believe you left last night!" she scolded me. "He was so into you!" I was glad she wasn't there to see my massive eye roll. "What was that guy's name anyway? I never even asked," I said. "You didn't even ask his name?" she said, aghast at my apparent rudeness,"It's a shame. I thought you two would really hit it off." "Hmm", I mumbled non-committally.
  She sighed. "Well, let me know if you want his number. Or if you want to go out with him again. Oh, and by the way, his name is Tom."
  
 
  

What Happens When A Couch Potato Drags Her Butt Off the Couch?

Exercise has pretty much been proven to be the Answer to Everything. Doctors, scientists, magazines, moms, Oprah, and overweight people on reality television are constantly telling us that physical activity (at least 30 minutes, 5 days a week!) will solve, or at least lessen the weight of, all of our problems.
   Feeling sluggish and indifferent about life in general? Do some yoga, they say. Feeling crushed after a particularly bad breakup? (You know the kind I'm talking about. The kind where your apartment starts to stink because you haven't taken out the trash in a week because all you've been doing is calling in sick to work and watching way too many Meg Ryan movies because you're convinced the loser who dumped you will meet you at the top of the Space Needle for a reconciliation kiss at the end of the movie. Oh, wait. This isn't a movie. It's real life. Back to the part about exercise.)
  Hit the local trail and start jogging. Simply feeling like a fat tub of lard? Get off your butt and walk around the block. (The actual block, not just down your driveway to grab the newspaper and head back inside for more beer and Sunday football.) This is the advice we're constantly bombarded with. Exercise! Get your blood pumping! Now!
 Some of us follow this advice, some of us don't, and some of us only pretend to follow it by convincing ourselves that walking to our apartment mailbox with our dog is the same thing as taking our dog for a walk. I fall into this category. It is finally time for me to admit my shameful secret: I hate exercising. Exercising reminds me of the good old days in P.E. (confession: they were not really the good old days. They were dark days, very dark days indeed) when my over-zealous P.E. teacher made us learn a synchronized dance to the theme song from "Men In Black".
  To this day, when I hear the word "exercise" my mind immediately hears Ms. Franco's voice shouting "Ok kids! It's time to EXERCISE!" and the first lines of the "Men In Black" theme worm their way into my brain, now matter how desperately I try to push them out. "Here come the men in black/galaxy defenders...". I even remember the Will Smith rap.
  So, as you have probably gathered, I've lived my life thus far quite opposed to the notion of exercising. Now, don't get me wrong, I do not hail from a family of couch potatoes. Quite the opposite, in fact. My mother wakes up at 5 am every morning to get in her daily 30 minutes of physical activity. She jogs and bikes frequently with friends. My father is a yoga devotee, and I've also seen him lifting a kettle bell in the backyard more times than I can count. My parents will often work out together, saying they are going to "hit the trail".
 It's at times like these when I feel the most cowardly, hiding behind my Archie comic book at breakfast and muttering a vague "No thanks" when they appear, beaming (how can anyone be beaming in the morning?), dressed in chic workout gear and asking me if I want to "hit the trail" with them. Surprise, surprise, my answer is always a pathetic "no". My well-worn and extremely tired excuse? "I don't have time to exercise". I am a seasoned veteran at crafting excuses as to why I don't have time to exercise. There is never a shred of truth to any of them.
   Now that I have been diagnosed with Social Anxiety Disorder, however, my comfortable sloth-like existence is being severely threatened. After discussions with my doctor, mom (the woman is a fitness guru), and several Google research trips, the truth is starting to hit me. I might actually have to start exercising. Regularly. The thought is absolutely disheartening.
  How does exercise help depression and anxiety? According to mayoclinic.com it can "release feel-good brain chemicals such as neurotransmitters and endorphins that may ease depression, reduce immune system chemicals that can worsen depression, increase body temperatures,which may have a calming effect, provide a distraction from negative thoughts that can feed anxiety and depression, give you the chance to meet new people, and provide you with a healthy way to cope with stress and anger."
 Apparently, exercise, and lots of it, is exactly what I, and the other 19 million Americans who suffer from an anxiety disorder, need. Maybe it won't be that bad. That part about neurotransmitters sounded kind of cool. Let's fast forward to a few days after I realized that, in order to become more like the Normal People, I need to start getting my butt off the couch and onto a treadmill.
  Luckily for me my apartment building has a free gym. (Actually, when I realized this, I cursed inwardly. At least one excuse was out the window.) I had debated for several days (in truth I wasn't debating, I was stalling) deciding what type of exercise I wanted to do. I had ruled out anything involving The Great Outdoors. The Great Outdoors meant bugs, severe heat, more bugs, and people with extremely tanned and toned abs jogging past me as I huffed and puffed. I am neither tan, nor do I have extremely toned abs, so I felt like I would be intruding on their exclusive Tanned and Toned Ab Club. I had also ruled out anything involving my beloved dog, Clapton. (Clapton's been having some health problems, so at least this one was a legitimate excuse.)
  Nor did I want to dance around to corny workout videos in my apartment. That would mean a lot of banging into the furniture, and my furniture is pretty expensive. (See how many excuses I can come up with? I told you I was a seasoned vet.) My dear father had suggested yoga classes, but I ruled that out too, for now, because I have no desire to be in a sweaty room with a bunch of sweaty people I don't know. That left one more option: the apartment gym.
  The night before my First Official Workout I did a secret scoping mission. I thought I'd be sneaky and slip into the gym at night to check it out. Are you aware that most of the Normal People work out at night? As I entered the gym, several people in chic workout gear stared at me while pounding the treadmill. I suppose I looked rather out of place in my pajamas. Scurrying shame-facedly out of the gym, I began to worry incessantly. (I have an anxiety disorder remember? I do a lot of worrying.)
  The reasons behind my worrying? 1. I had no chic workout gear. Apparently that was a requirement in the gym. 2. The exercise machines all looked extremely complicated. How on earth was I going to operate one of those? I'd planned on effortlessly stepping onto the treadmill like a natural. 3. I had no ipod. How was I going to have any motivation at all to keep exercising if I couldn't listen to music? These were all very legitimate reasons to worry in my opinion.
  The next day I stalled like you woudn't believe. I am an expert at stalling and procrastinating. I practically have a masters degree in it. Excuses flew back and forth in my brain. "I'll look stupid!" "I haven't waxed my legs!" "I have to run errands!" (That was a particularly lame excuse. I never run errands.) However, quite surprisingly, I managed to maintain a steely resolve. I am very determined to overcome my severe anxiety and panic attacks, and I knew deep inside that exercising would help.
  So what did your reigning Princess of Panic do? I got dressed in decidedly un-chic workout gear (Lady Gaga concert t-shirt, pink shorts that I've had since 7th grade, yes, 7th, and my Nikes that don't fit anymore and that've been lying around my closet since the days of King Arthur), grabbed a water bottle, said goodbye to my cat and dog, and lugged my cd player, complete with Lady Gaga's first album, all the way down to that infernal gym.
  Two people were pounding the treadmills and jamming out silently to ipods. One was an extremely buff gentleman covered in tattoos and the other was a blonde girl who was probably an SMU cheerleader. I looked more than a little out of place. I cautiously plugged in my cd player and pressed play. Lady Gaga started telling me to "Just Dance". I glanced nervously at Tattoo Guy and Blonde Girl, but they didn't seem to notice me, or Gaga. Whew.
  I edged over nervously to a machine that I've now discovered is called an elliptical. I stepped gingerly on the pedals, and they immediately started moving. Fast. Yikes! I was freaking out. I had no idea if I was working this machine right. Tattoo Guy and Blonde Girl were still ignoring me. I decided to act natural. Four songs into the Gaga album, I was drenched in sweat, my heart was pounding and my butt was aching. Had I exercised long enough? I desperately wanted to stop, but I didn't want Tattoo Guy or Blondie to think I was a wuss.
  Blonde Girl took off her headphones and finally left the room. She wasn't even sweaty! Outrageous! I didn't even want to think about what kind of a hot mess I probably looked like. (Did I mention I was wearing my glasses and they kept sliding down my nose? Tip: don't wear glasses while exercising.) I was pleased to see that Tattoo Guy was drenched in sweat, however. At we seemed to be in the same boat.
  Finally, on about track nine of the Gaga album, Tattoo Guy left the gym. He immediately jumped into the pool. (I caught a glimpse of his chiseled abs and determined he definitely deserved a membership in the Tanned and Toned Ab Club.) WHEW. I abandoned my elliptical and collapsed onto a bench, Gaga still shouting. I was positively swimming in sweat. Yucky. However, I felt surprisingly...good. I felt proud of myself for actually dragging my butt down here in my un-chic workout gear. My heart was pumping in a good way. Maybe there was something to this whole exercising thing after all? I'll keep you posted. Yours, Princess of Panic
 

Social Anxiety at the Supermarket: Peanut Butter, Cereal, and a Whole Lotta Gagging

 Opening my fridge one weekend morning, I surveyed the contents (mustard, Mountain Dew Code Red, and a months-old brownie), and decided that unless I wanted to eat a stale brownie topped with mustard for breakfast, it was time for a trip to the supermarket. 
     Now, for all the Normal People out there, a trip to the local supermarket is fairly predictable. The Normal Person goes in, throw a bunch of unhealthy things they don't need into a cart, tosses an Us Weekly magazine in at the last second, and leaves. Mission accomplished. However, for I, the reigning Princess of Panic, an ordinary trip to the grocery store can be quite the ordeal. I am surrounded by people I don't know (and don't want to know, and you wouldn't want to know them either if you've been to my grocery store), in a large noisy place, wedged in narrow aisles knowing the whole thing will probably take about two hours. (I am a very picky eater, and I also spend lots of unnecessary time in the shampoo aisle reading the ingredient labels intensely. I am vehemently opposed to using shampoos that contain sulfates, so I scour the ingredients list before I buy a new shampoo. Perhaps this is a sign of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I hope not or I will have to start a whole other blog focusing on yet another one of my issues.)
     Back to the topic at hand, the doom of the impending grocery store trip. I feel nervous even thinking about going to that darned busy supermarket. Why do I feel nervous? Simple. The reason all panic princesses and socially phobic studs feel nervous about going places: what if I have a panic attack in the middle of the cereal aisle? Will I have to abandon my cart and rush to the bathroom? (It's happened before.) What if I can't find the bathroom? Then I'll have to ask someone. That would be very embarrassing, because who uses the bathroom in the grocery store? Plus, have you ever tried tracking down a supermarket employee before to ask them where the bathroom is? It's nearly impossible. They're always busy putting together some new display of Coke cans shaped like a football player.
    A trip to the pharmacy located in my supermarket compounds my worries. The pharmacy techs are not very friendly, and they always return my "Hi! How are you's?" with blank, glassy-eyed stares. Perhaps the flourescent lights and extreme monotony of working in a pharmacy has sucked the soul out of them? I can't be sure. Despite all of my rapidly accelerating worries, I grab my car keys and head to the Place of Doom, the local Kroger.
      I arrive at the Kroger. The place is packed, extremely noisy, and there isn't an employee in sight in case I need to ask for the bathroom. I push my cart into the nearest aisle, the cereal aisle, and start loading boxes into my cart. (I am a huge cereal eater and usually buy about seven boxes.) I see Tony the Tiger's orange face grinning at me from a box of Frosted Flakes. I relax a little. Tony is smiling as if to say "It's ok. It's just the supermarket. No reason to panic." Wait. Or is Tony mocking me? Is that a sneer instead of a smile? I avoid my gaze and hurry out of the cereal aisle.
   I reach the aisle where they have the peanut butter when it happens. (I basically live of off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, so a trip to this aisle is mandatory.) I'm pushing my cart, and all of a sudden, I gag. It's important for me to explain at this point something very important: my panic disorder, or social anxiety disorder, or whatever the heck it is that I've got, has some unusual and very uncomfortable symptoms: chronic, uncontrollable, unpredictable, unstoppable gagging. That's right. Gagging. Remember when you go to the dentist and they stick that mirror thing so far down your throat that you gag? It's exactly like that. But there is no dentist with a mirror thing down my throat. There's just a random grocery store aisle, and then a feeling of nervousness, and then, a gag. I realize this may gross and/or weird some of the Normal People out, but this blog is titled "Outrageous Confessions", not "Tepid Confessions" or "Happy, Normal, Smiley Confessions".
    No, I don't understand the gagging, or what causes it. Basically I believe the extreme fear of having a gagging attack causes a gagging attack. It's a horrible chain reaction. It's actually quite awful having to live in fear that you'll start gagging like a bullfrog wherever you go. It's caused me to miss out on too many parties, dates, outings with friends, concerts, and simple trips to the grocery store to even remember. And yes, I've tried all the deep breathing and "think happy thoughts" crap they tell you to do on the internet when you're having a severe panic attack. Hint: it doesn't work. At least not for me.
    Back to the peanut butter aisle. I push my cart along slowly, trying to think calmly. "There's no reason to panic, nothing's wrong, everything is perfectly FINE." I realize they don't have my brand of peanut butter, just the weird kind with Peter Pan on the jar. Ok, now I do have a legitimate reason to panic. Then, all of a sudden, another gag. Yikes! It's happening! I'm turning into my bullfrog alter ego! (I haven't given her a name yet, but maybe I should. Maybe Gag-Girl? Hmm.) I slap my hand over my mouth literally trying to stop the gagging, but that only makes it worse. It's like some sort of drug, my mind says "no" but my body is saying it needs one last gag.
   By now I've become terrified that the ordinary lady next to me with her cute fat baby will notice my beyond-weird gagging. I take a deep breath, making one more pathetic attempt to calm myself down. Here it comes, up the throat...gag! Oh no. I can no longer casually stand in the peanut butter aisle. It's time. Time to make the race to the bathroom. Time to find an employee to ask them where the bathroom even is in this huge store. But where the heck is an employee? I look left, right, all around. Gag. Better hurry! Then, I see it. A large display of Red Bull cans shaped like a giant cowboy boot. Behind it, a sweaty bald head is bobbing up and down, laboriously adding more cans to the mammoth Red Bull boot. I abandon my cart and head for the ridiculously unnecessary boot. Let's just hope I can ask the employee where the bathroom is without Gag-Girl scaring him off.

101 Excuses

Dear fellow Princesses of Panic and Social Anxiety Studs:
       Hey there! I'm the ultimate Princess of Panic and this is our little corner of the universe where we can all...PANIC! Shh, don't tell anyone! We don't want all those Normal People who have it all together budging in on our space and telling us their old "Get a grip" and "Take deep breaths" chestnuts. We've heard it all way too many times before, haven't we? So, one, two, three...everybody...let go! Panic! Hide in your closet because you're too afraid to answer the door or the phone! Refuse to get out of bed because the thought of eating breakfast, getting dressed, and facing snooty co-workers terrifies you! (Of course, facing snooty co-workers most likely terrifies the Normal People as well.) Pace outside of a restaurant for three hours (or more), clutching an application in your sweaty hand while pondering all the horrible possibilities of actually going inside to turn it in to a manager. (Helpful hint to the Normal People: Us panic princesses and social anxiety studs never end up turning our application in. We convince ourselves that tomorrow will be the Big Day when we'll finally pluck up the courage to charge into that restaurant and thrust our application confidently into the manager's hands. Another helpful hint: It never happens.)
  For those Normal People out there who are scratching their perfectly normal heads in utter confusion, let me, the reigning Princess of Panic, define some terms for you:

Social Anxiety Disorder: also called social phobia, is an anxiety disorder in which a person has an excessive and unreasonable fear of social situations. A person with social anxiety disorder is afraid that he or she will make mistakes and be embarrassed or humiliated in front of others.
 
Symptoms: Intense anxiety in social situations, avoidance of social situations, physical symptoms of anxiety including pounding heart, shaking, muscle tension, diarrhea, gagging, and about a million other things my fellow panic princesses and social anxiety studs are all too horribly familiar with.

Panic Disorder: Panic disorder is an anxiety disorder and is characterized by unexpected and repeated episodes of intense fear accompanied by physical symptoms that may include chest pain, heart palpitations, shortness of breath, gagging/dry heaving, dizziness, and about a hundred other things I seem to discover every day.

This blog is dedicated to the other 12 million Americans out there (and yes, we know you're out there, stop trying to chalk it up to "stress") who are experiencing in some way what I, the reigning Princess of Panic, am experiencing: a panic disorder and social phobia so great it's invaded my everyday life and is making simple things like a trip to the grocery store virtually impossible.  I want help, I want to conquer this darn thing, and I want all my other panic princesses and socially phobic studs to come along for the ride. I'm going to try whatever I can, be it medication, exercise, meditation, eating healthy, random advice I got off of Google, and probably some questionable remedies I'll make up, to get over the seemingly insurmountable hump that is my panic disorder. I'm going to stop making up 101 excuses why I can't go to this party or that job interview because I'm "busy" or "sick". Us panic sufferers are brilliant, and I mean brilliant, at crafting 101 excuses or more to get out of doing stuff we're afraid of. No more. I'm going to pick up the phone right now and call the guy who invited me to his party next week and I'm going to tell him "Sure, I'll come, but I might have to leave early because I don't feel comfortable around lots of people I don't know because I have panic disorder." He'll probably think I'm weird. But hey, you can't please all the Normal People.  Yours truly, Princess of Panic