head
   He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he gaze long into the abyss... only to find his own reflection.

A Blog, Sort of

This Panic Attack (PA) is acute and severe (coming on fast, very painful). It will last all night. There is nothing I can do to stop it.

Except by drinking some heavy booze, really fast.

I won't do that though - though I do contemplate doing so - how could I not?

What happened was, I posted some code I wrote to a "social website" - Github in this case if you don't know it.

More later, to explain what this means, but basically, a PTSD inflicted person develops severe anxiety - and I mean fucking severe, painful anxiety - when making one's self "known" by a post to a social networking website.

It's pain. It's fucking pain. The heart not just races, but "palpitates against the ribs", as Darwin wrote about it. What can only be described as a feeling of acid, flows from the center of my chest into my arms and legs.

I cannot concentrate. I am lost. At a loss. "What the fuck!" screams inside my brain.

I fucking hate this. This shit. This fucking shit that happens all the fucking time.

Why do I persist? Reaching out? Participating in the world? When it causes so much pain?

"I have to," echos in the back of my head. "I have to." "I fucking have to." "I have to do fucking something," with the creativity that forms in by brain!

Otherwise, I am dead. Worse than dead. Living in a hollow shell in fucking misery.

(P.S. My fucking apartment neighbors' bed springs squeak, if you know what I mean.)

Writing Down the Pain
I'd like just once to fall asleep feeling good about myself. Just once. Drunken stupors do not count.