some days my brain isn’t mine

The Good

Let’s start with the good, shall we?

On Saturday, James and I make spontaneous plans to grab brunch after taking Guinness for a walk. Did I mention it was SUNNY?! I saw blue skies, people. I also ate a dutch baby pancake, rhubarb french toast, and patatas bravas. So, points for getting my daily dose of much-needed vitamin D with a side of brunch heaven.

We got shit done, too! Fixed our fake lawn (dogs can still dig holes in astroturf). Bought happy pink daisies for the front porch. Did weekly grocery shopping. Got my eyebrows to look normal. Talked to my in-laws.

On Sunday, we took Guinness on a field trip to the Vancouver farmer’s market. We walked along the waterfront, let Guinness chase ducks, and bought some local honey, asparagus, and a lemon white chocolate cookie.

Seriously?! I get to do these things?!

All-in-all, a win for a weekend.


If I left my weekend description at that, I would say I had an Instagram-worthy two days. Perfect dog, perfect husband, and perfect weekend.

However, we all know that can’t be the whole story. Good catch, guys!

On Friday, I had an anxiety-ridden day and panic-attack filled evening. I was completely shut inside my brain, snapping at James and Guinness at every chance. I was going back and forth between hating myself for acting this way and crying because I couldn’t stop myself. The self-love shit goes out the window when you manage to obsess for 4 hours about your failures as a human.

James knows. He always does. He kindly asks if everything’s okay or if he can help. I tell him I’m fine. Even as I do my fifth chore of the evening, distracting myself to all ends, I convince myself that I can’t say anything. I can’t admit my brain is spinning. That lack of control is still terrifying to me.

I stay around him all evening. I like the comfort of others, even if I can’t allow myself to talk to them or treat them well.

Want to know what set my brain off?

Me too. It could have been the podcast I listened to about manifesting abundance. It could have been having a slower day at work. It could have been what I ATE. It sneaks up on me and traps me inside with my thought loops of failure, imperfection, and self-hatred.


When my brain decided to calm down around 11 pm that night, allowing me to actually sleep, I was so grateful. Grateful and angry. I think I can be both.

Grateful that I could be myself again–that my fog had been lifted. Grateful to have someone who understands that this happens sometimes. Grateful it only lasted one day. Grateful I was alive. Grateful I hadn’t had any suicidal thoughts.

Yet, I was angry. Angry that I didn’t use my self-care plan. Angry that I closed myself off. Angry that I have this happen.

When this happens, I always say “next time will be different”. I’ll nip it in the bud. I’ll use positive self-talk. I’ll do some goddamn yoga. I won’t let it get bad.

But, I probably won’t. And I probably can’t control it. But I can be honest. I can say I don’t know what’s happening to my brain. I can play with my dog. I can watch a movie.

But I can be honest. I can say I don’t know what’s happening to my brain. I can play with my dog. I can watch a disney movie and eat halo top.

I can accept that some days my brain isn’t mine.

Manic Panic and McNuggets

It caught me off guard.

They always catch me off guard, despite 6 years of experience.

I thought, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

It doesn’t make a panic attack any less frustrating. less annoying. less inconvenient.

I googled “What to do when you have a panic attack at work” (because, yes, after 6 six years of this shit I still don’t always know what to do). It’s hard to tell yourself “breathe, take a walk, relax” when your¬†thoughts are going so fast you can’t comprehend what’s wrong. I texted James. I ignored the tightening in my stomach. The lump in my throat. The quickening of my breath. I started at my computer screen and willed my brain to keep working, keep plodding. It’ll go away.

Spoiler alert: They never go away. It’s like ignoring a scratch.

Then the crying. Is there anything worse than crying at work? (Okay, yes, TONS of things, but it still blows.) I stay silent and face away, hoping no one hears me or sees me and comes by my cubical. (Cubicles are not ideal for panic-attack crying jags)

I try a quick journal, but it backfires (negative self-talk permeates my panic attacks).

I email my¬†manager and I say I’m not feeling well. I did not say “I’m having an anxiety-induced panic attack about what a failure of a human being I am.” Somehow, I don’t think it would come off as well.

30 minutes later, I’m sitting in a grocery store parking lot as I furiously eat 20 McNuggets and listen to my audiobook. My favorite coping mechanism. (Notice I did not say my healthiest coping mechanism). I drown out the rapid-fire thoughts in my head, reminding myself it’ll be over soon.

I get home. It’s over. I pet Guinness. I fire up my laptop, put on the Princess Diaries, and begin working.

James comes home, bubble tea in hand. He hugs me and says he’s sorry.

I breathe. Another day.