Categories > Original > Drama
A/N: I've been killing zombies all day and just watched, "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew" (which is a great show! ha!) and then "Being John Malkovich" (which is a great film!). So I'm in a bit of a weird mood. And you'd think I'd be tired (killing zombies is a lot of work you know), but noooo. Actually, I felt like busting out a quick story. Here's the thing though, it's actually SECOND PERSON POV (here's where the "Being John Malkovich" kinda comes into play). So, technically, this makes it different from all the stuff in the "moments" series I've been doing. I'm just gonna let it stand alone as my own personal, "ode to the anxiety attack, brought on by phobia". Hmmm ... Oh also, I think the tense here is present perfect progressive ... that's a mouthful ain't it? Basically I just want the action to seem like some of it has already taken place, but some of it is also happening in the present. Well, let me know if it seems funky and if you all know what an anxiety attack feels like when you're done reading! ha.
The organ in your chest is beating uncontrollably and you haven't even stepped foot in the office yet. The feeling of your heart rattling around behind your breast bone, like it's in a cage and it can't escape, makes all the blood pump through your veins that much faster. That, in turn, is giving you the sweats.
You walk up to the front desk. Your mouth seems to have dried up and your tongue feels like it's covered in dry desert sand. You know you need to pull yourself together to speak, but your racing heart and the chain reaction it set off is making it difficult to form any thoughts. There's a snowball in your mind that just started a long descent down a mountainside. Your therapist once called it, negative self talk. You've simply started labeling it the, what ifs.
"Uhh, h-hi."
"Hi there!"
"I have you down at 2pm. Can I get you to sign in here? It will just be a short while before they call you in."
Somehow, you manage to not only smile at the receptionist, but to also print your name on the sign in sheet – before the shakes start - because they will start. You sit down in the small waiting area and you start fidgeting with your hands – wringing them over and over again, the sweat on your palms making them almost slippery to the touch. You start bouncing your knee. Anyone that looked at you right now would know – they'd fucking know what a horrible stress case you were.
You cringe when they call out your name. You force yourself to get up even though what you really want to do is run as fast as you can out the door. As you turn towards the happy smiling assistant, it feels like you're losing more and more control. You manage a simple, "hi" followed by an uncomfortable laugh as she walks you into one of the rooms.
"Just come on back and we'll get you ready!"
You wonder how these people can be so damn chipper and you know you have to fess up – you have to explain to them what your problem is. They need to know they have to put their, "kid gloves" on for you because you're a giant thirty-one year old pussy. So as you sit down in the contraption they call a chair, you manage to choke out that you're nervous.
"Um, yeah, in case you can't tell, I'm nervous and I'm ... well, I've got a phobia of needles."
The assistant looks down at you and says, "that's okay". Really, it's not okay at all. Now that you're actually in here, your anxiety level is ratcheted up even further. It feels like the door is a million miles away – effectively cutting off your escape route should things become too difficult.
You try to work on your breathing, but it feels hopeless. You're on the verge of hyperventilating and you can't stop thinking about how you can't control your heart rate at all. The damn thing is just flopping around your chest like a dying goldfish. And then the dentist makes his grand entrance.
Like so many dentists you've been to, the guy acts like a certified crack pot. You secretly suspect that they all hit up that nitrous tank when no one's looking. His jovial manner and jokes do nothing to calm your nerves. You try to explain to him that you have a lot of anxiety and that you have a huge phobia of needles. The assistant is still standing by and she slips her fingers on the pulse point on one of your wrists. You watch as her eyes widen.
You're desperately trying to get a grip, to, "cowboy up" as they say. You flip the question of, 'why can't I control this?' over and over in your mind. You're barely aware of the deliberation between the assistant and the dentist now but you're pretty sure it has something to do with your heart beating at like 140 clicks per minute.
As if to add insult to injury, the guy tips you back in the chair, making you feel even more out of control. Before you know it you've got a bib chained around your neck and he's about to gas you. You don't want that, 'cause it's just another drug, and it never did anything to calm your nerves anyway. It was bad enough they were going to inject you with shit in about 30 seconds.
"Uh, don't give me any of that! I can't take that stuff."
You've successfully avoided being gassed. Your hands grip the arm rests and all you want to do is flail, or scream. It feels like you're fucking dying - like at any moment your heart will burst and you'll suck down your last breath. Naturally, your body chooses that moment to kick the shakes into high gear. Your system can only do overdrive for so long before it shudders and spits like a car running out of gas. Then you hear them say that they're going to try to let you relax for a few minutes and come back. A small reprieve, but you know it won't change the inevitable. You wish you had asked to be knocked the fuck out. Tremors rattle your frame and the more you try to control them, the more they seem to happen.
Time seemed to warp and before you knew it, the pair were back again and very eager to start in on you. The dentist suggests you close your eyes, but it was already too late. You've already seen the syringe in his blue-gloved hand, poised to drive the long needle deep into your gums. Your jaw is trembling as you open your mouth. You know it's not making his job any easier. Your breath is coming in short gasps as you feel the needle plunge into your jaw. The knuckles on your fingers are white, gripping into the chair like little vices. Your arms are shaky. Your heart still feels like it's trying to push its way out of your chest. And then the sadists leave once more. You know they're not done. They've just gone off for a short bit to regroup while what they've injected you with takes effect. Soon enough, they'll be back, but at least now the needle part is over.
A/N: P.S. I fucking hate the dentist.
The organ in your chest is beating uncontrollably and you haven't even stepped foot in the office yet. The feeling of your heart rattling around behind your breast bone, like it's in a cage and it can't escape, makes all the blood pump through your veins that much faster. That, in turn, is giving you the sweats.
You walk up to the front desk. Your mouth seems to have dried up and your tongue feels like it's covered in dry desert sand. You know you need to pull yourself together to speak, but your racing heart and the chain reaction it set off is making it difficult to form any thoughts. There's a snowball in your mind that just started a long descent down a mountainside. Your therapist once called it, negative self talk. You've simply started labeling it the, what ifs.
"Uhh, h-hi."
"Hi there!"
"I have you down at 2pm. Can I get you to sign in here? It will just be a short while before they call you in."
Somehow, you manage to not only smile at the receptionist, but to also print your name on the sign in sheet – before the shakes start - because they will start. You sit down in the small waiting area and you start fidgeting with your hands – wringing them over and over again, the sweat on your palms making them almost slippery to the touch. You start bouncing your knee. Anyone that looked at you right now would know – they'd fucking know what a horrible stress case you were.
You cringe when they call out your name. You force yourself to get up even though what you really want to do is run as fast as you can out the door. As you turn towards the happy smiling assistant, it feels like you're losing more and more control. You manage a simple, "hi" followed by an uncomfortable laugh as she walks you into one of the rooms.
"Just come on back and we'll get you ready!"
You wonder how these people can be so damn chipper and you know you have to fess up – you have to explain to them what your problem is. They need to know they have to put their, "kid gloves" on for you because you're a giant thirty-one year old pussy. So as you sit down in the contraption they call a chair, you manage to choke out that you're nervous.
"Um, yeah, in case you can't tell, I'm nervous and I'm ... well, I've got a phobia of needles."
The assistant looks down at you and says, "that's okay". Really, it's not okay at all. Now that you're actually in here, your anxiety level is ratcheted up even further. It feels like the door is a million miles away – effectively cutting off your escape route should things become too difficult.
You try to work on your breathing, but it feels hopeless. You're on the verge of hyperventilating and you can't stop thinking about how you can't control your heart rate at all. The damn thing is just flopping around your chest like a dying goldfish. And then the dentist makes his grand entrance.
Like so many dentists you've been to, the guy acts like a certified crack pot. You secretly suspect that they all hit up that nitrous tank when no one's looking. His jovial manner and jokes do nothing to calm your nerves. You try to explain to him that you have a lot of anxiety and that you have a huge phobia of needles. The assistant is still standing by and she slips her fingers on the pulse point on one of your wrists. You watch as her eyes widen.
You're desperately trying to get a grip, to, "cowboy up" as they say. You flip the question of, 'why can't I control this?' over and over in your mind. You're barely aware of the deliberation between the assistant and the dentist now but you're pretty sure it has something to do with your heart beating at like 140 clicks per minute.
As if to add insult to injury, the guy tips you back in the chair, making you feel even more out of control. Before you know it you've got a bib chained around your neck and he's about to gas you. You don't want that, 'cause it's just another drug, and it never did anything to calm your nerves anyway. It was bad enough they were going to inject you with shit in about 30 seconds.
"Uh, don't give me any of that! I can't take that stuff."
You've successfully avoided being gassed. Your hands grip the arm rests and all you want to do is flail, or scream. It feels like you're fucking dying - like at any moment your heart will burst and you'll suck down your last breath. Naturally, your body chooses that moment to kick the shakes into high gear. Your system can only do overdrive for so long before it shudders and spits like a car running out of gas. Then you hear them say that they're going to try to let you relax for a few minutes and come back. A small reprieve, but you know it won't change the inevitable. You wish you had asked to be knocked the fuck out. Tremors rattle your frame and the more you try to control them, the more they seem to happen.
Time seemed to warp and before you knew it, the pair were back again and very eager to start in on you. The dentist suggests you close your eyes, but it was already too late. You've already seen the syringe in his blue-gloved hand, poised to drive the long needle deep into your gums. Your jaw is trembling as you open your mouth. You know it's not making his job any easier. Your breath is coming in short gasps as you feel the needle plunge into your jaw. The knuckles on your fingers are white, gripping into the chair like little vices. Your arms are shaky. Your heart still feels like it's trying to push its way out of your chest. And then the sadists leave once more. You know they're not done. They've just gone off for a short bit to regroup while what they've injected you with takes effect. Soon enough, they'll be back, but at least now the needle part is over.
A/N: P.S. I fucking hate the dentist.
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