Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

I'll breathe anyway.

June 17, 2016

 

I've had nights when I thought panic itself would kill me. And, really, when you're in the grips of that kind of anxiety (real or imagined), there's not much you can do to rationally talk yourself down. That's not how we're wired, and for good reason. Our ancestors didn't sit around, debating the sub-species of Saber-toothed tiger as it was bearing down on them. 

 

But now, man, our wiring is all kinds of jacked up--re-wired, jury-rigged, patched, and one hell of a fire hazard. And, sure, we can go in, start pulling wires, start laying new connections, blow out the dust. 

 

But you can only do that once the danger has passed, after you've already shut down the electrical supply. In the meantime? All you can do is stay as safe as you can and, re: the anxiety-ridden brain, that means breathing. It means breathing in the midst of an attack because there ain't nothing else you can do (short of drugs, and yes, they have their place--but that's not the focus of this blogger or this platform). Breathe and let it ride. 

 

Afterwards, after the fuses are shut down, so to speak, you can pick your way back in. Look for the trigger--what set it off this time? What's preventable? What can be changed, rearranged, re-wired? 

 

The point: what can you do outside of the fire hazard, outside of the anxiety zone, to make this brain, this heart, this house of your soul a little safer?

 

That's where you begin. 

 

Don't wait until you're running from the flames to look for a bucket of water. 

 

 

 

 

 

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