Panic attacks.

I suffer from generalized anxiety disorder (among other things), though I don't like that it has a title, because that is not a disorder, it is life. I mean, who the hell doesn't have generalized anxiety? It's right up there with other BS diseases like restless leg syndrome and Lupus (it's never Lupus). And yet, the little DSM-IV code for "generalized anxiety disorder" shows up in the mail on all my medical bills, and I have a little bottle of oval peach-colored pills on hand at all times, at the ready for when my throat closes up and my breathing accelerates and I start sweating and my heart starts pounding and I get that weird feeling like I'm being physically restricted in a very claustrophobic way even though I'm out in the open and a metallic taste pops up in the back of my throat. This can happen at the strangest times. For example, when I saw the positive pregnancy test I just stared at it for a few minutes and then lit another cigarette. (Less reasonably, I then carried the test around in my bag with me for days, periodically checking on it to see if the cross had faded.) But for some reason, crossing 1st Ave into Alphabet City never fails to leave me choking on my own engorged heart which will have somehow resettled in the region of my throat.

Now that the seabass has signed a lease and set up his punching bag (I swear he's taking kickboxing lessons down there) in my uterus, I can't take my medicine anymore. I'm on a lot of meds, most of which my doctor has approved for use during my pregnancy. The anti-anxiety ones are the least important, in my mind, and luckily my attacks had been decreasing since the winter - from once or twice a week to once or twice a month. But in the last few weeks, they've started coming back, and in a whole new way. It happens late at night, when I'm alone with my Netflix Instaplay and my insomnia. The seabass will kick, and suddenly I will have vehemently changed my mind. Not in the whole boo-adoption way, but in the what-was-I-thinking-going-through-with-this-pregnancy way. And then I will start to wish violently that I were no longer pregnant, and that this was not my life, and that I had gone through with the abortion when I had the chance. Max Power and I probably wouldn't be together (if we even are "together" - I like my relationships complicated and impossible, clearly) but I'd be willing to trade that for a strong margarita, a whole lot of very high quality cocaine, and the assurance that I will not be responsible for the life of another human being for a very, very long time.

At these times, I start to cry uncontrollably. I get very uncomfortable in my own skin and I pace and sweat and bite my nails. And the fear wells up, the crippling fear that this will hobble me forever, that after the seabass is born I will never be able to stand up straight and look another human being in the eye. The shame of it all, and the guilt of all the years to come, years in which I will have a child but I will not be his mom, I will not nurture him at my breast or feed him his first solid food or see his first steps or yell at him to brush his teeth or tuck him into bed every night. I don't care about the differentiation of titles and what's appropriate and what's not - all I know in these moments is that something huge and momentous has plopped itself down on the tracks of my life and my train is speeding towards it with no idea what the impact will bring. All the while, my little bottle of pills looks at me and says, "sucker!"

Having been through more of my share of ridiculously traumatic experiences, mostly brought on by my own idiocy and wanderlust, I've had to deal with the anxiety fallout quite often. But this time, I don't have my two main support devices: my medicine, or my family. I know that my family is there, and supportive, but I just hate talking to them about my pregnancy. We all have a lot of complicated feelings about it, and it makes me feel super weird to open up to them about my emotions. I'm used to being overly reliant on my parents; they have literally walked me through every single crisis or semi-crisis I've encountered. But I don't think they can help me through this one. I just don't want their help on this one. I kind of wish that they would never have to know, that I could shield them from this horrible thing that I'm going to have to deal with, so that they neither have to watch me deal with it or deal with it themselves.

As for my sister... well, the two of us are very close. But she is being absolutely awful, and I'm worried that this experience is going to drive a serious wedge between us. She was the first one I told, and she's never stopped trying to urge me towards an abortion. She constantly belittles me about my choice, which she seems to think I made as a plea for attention. I know I may be oversimplifying, but her lack of support stings. A lot.

So instead of them, and instead of my pills, I've adopted some new techniques. Mostly these involve emailing bloggy friends and wailing until they cheer me up or suitably distract me. It is really nice to have that outlet, at least.