Medicating Salvation: It Puts The Pills In The Purse
I look like my house:
Pretty in the front, nothing on the sides. I just got my hair cut and it is the exact opposite of what I wanted, as depicted by the look on my face.
No matter though!
We make do.
This post is not about my hair though god knows it’s a topic I could discuss at length.
This post is about anxiety and panic. As my stylist was buzzing the sides the of my head – despite telling him I didn’t want anything “buzzy” – my body started with its sweaty, heart-racing, dizzying nonsense. It was then I looked at the fork in the road and chose the path most recently travelled: spiraling thoughts of me popping out of the chair, texting Kris to come get me, leaving the kids with who what where, everyone else in the salon staring while I hyperventilated in a cape, head half-shaved. Then I turned around and went back to the fork and told my brain to tell my body that this is just a fucking haircut. I closed my eyes and started to deeply breathe, blowing whiskers off my chin with every exhale until finally, despite disliking the outcome, I made it through the experience unscathed.
I “made it through” my haircut. Never in my life … I had my head shaved in front of a crowd only a year ago fercrissake and today, in my post 4/15/15 brain … I am the proud survivor of a haircut. I mean … really? Really.
The lesson learned for me is simple: put some of those pills in my purse. If I now have the propensity for full-blown panic – and I think I do – take a clonazepam before a haircut, a dental cleaning or a flight, just in case my body decides not to listen to my brain. My body can be an asshole like that so, we make do.