Scary day

Scary scary scary day.

I decided last night that today would be the day I would get an appointment with the GP to talk about whateveritisthatiswrongwithme... I didn't tell anyone, instead I lay awake and had palpitations and thought about what I should/shouldn't say, what she might ask, etc, etc.

After securing a 3.20pm appointment (Richard ended up phoning the medical centre for me), I spent the whole day worrying, thinking, panicking, stressing, breathing wrong, flapping, not taking in information. I imagined how it would all go and what might be said, over and over and over... My chest began to ache so I decided to play the flute just to slow down my breathing.
This is the biggest reason why I need some kind of help: if something is going to happen it gets spotlit by my brain and everything else goes into shadow. I can't function until the thing is over. The adrenalin rushes perpetuate themselves and leave me powerless.
On the rare occasions that we have offered to be hosts for Christmas I have started worrying in October and found everyday life almost impossible until it's all over.
The other reason - I realise now - why I need help is the palpitations. The GP said she was worried about that and I have to go back in for blood tests. Palpitations because you haven't planted your onions and garlic yet are not normal, apparently.

Just before the visit to the GP we filled the stressful gap with a wild walk in the wind and rain on the dunes and beach and it didn't help one jot.
Writing, photography, deep-breathing, relaxation apps on my phone, walks, wine, TV... none of my usual tricks are working recently. I think I'm mostly terrified about talking about myself, and accepting that something's wrong has made it real and made it worse.
I'm getting mini adrenalin rushes now - just thinking about it.

The doc asked some tricky questions about my social life and my past. She suspects my anxiety is a result of childhood trauma and is eager for me to get help through CBT but is going to see if there are any medical problems.

The photo is of our beautiful little angel, youngest child, Tess.
She's eating a cute cuddly cat - of course. The 17-yr-old and I had far too much fun making this scene ("too much fun"? Me? - probably not ;o) )

My chickens (children) are all in the coop, I've managed to submit the VAT return and now have wine, and in a minute: salmon dinner. It's all good. So why the stupid panicking?

Dammit. It's like an evil intruder.