Yesterday, I committed the late afternoon to hanging out in the back of the house to do laundry. I KNOW! Will the excitement never end?!?
I had a bowl of pistachios.
I eat pistachios on the regular, as well as walnuts, because they’re full of the good fats that help an anxious brain.
At some point, one of my pistachios tasted funny. It was sorta floral. In an unpleasant way.
As I continued to munch my pistachios, my mind began to unfurl the potential dangers of a poor tasting pistachio.
Poison was the natural assumption of the anxious brain.
DEATH BY PISTACHIOS.
Panic attack ensued.
It had been over seven months since I had one.
I was dying. Everyone who’s ever had a panic attack knows that they knew they were dying. That’s what makes the panic attacks so fucking fun.
I accepted the panic and rolled with it. I did the breathing. It passed in 24 four-count breaths. Pretty long death, compared to cyanide.
When it was over, I walked my dog around the yard, barefoot, as a distraction, and also hoping to get some sense of grounding.
I alerted my friends via social media: while i was doing laundry, i ate pistachios. one of them tasted funny, and i thought i might die, so i hadda have a panic attack about it.
— it’s been about an hour since i ate that poison, and i think i’m alright.
so i’ll just do more laundry…but if anyone asks, it was the laundry that killed me, not the pistachios.
Because it’s good to have a sense of humor about the failures of one’s brain, and because surviving what was obviously a near-death pistachio experience feels like an important update.
I realize I have come a long way in my journey with anxiety. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine a seven-day break between panic attacks, let alone seven months.
I think I’ll celebrate with more pistachios.