The 'fun' of panic attacks at 6 in the morning.

I heard my alarm go off at 6am, as it does every morning, reminding me to get up and eat something. This is a standard part of my day, and goes off after my 5:30am alarm which gently reminds me to take my morning medications. However, this morning I heard would might have been either hysterical laughter or desperate sobbing from the next room, which is my mother's bedroom.

I rose, stumbling into the hall and listened at the door, unsure of exactly what to do for a moment, then segued into my restroom to pee instead, and attempt to gather and process my thoughts. I heard Mom's pleasant upbeat voice moving toward the kitchen, witch further compounded my confusion and anxiety into full blown panic. If something was wrong, was it with me, or with her? Was I hallucinating? Has my Holiday Anxiety switched over to full-blown psychosis?

No, at least, not just yet. Mom was in the kitchen preparing her breakfast when I stumbled in and asked in a jumbled up way, what exactly I had been hearing, explaining that it might have been hysterical crying or laughter, but based on her current emotional cues seemed to be neither?

It was a Soprano, singing a French version of a Christmas Hymn, via our local classical music station, which is Mom's choice of wake-up alarm. It was certainly alarming to me at least. With a brief back and forth explaining the main difference in the French version of the Hymn versus the more common to hear in America, it was made clear, the desperate sobbing or hysterical laughter, was song, muffled through the wall, variable by musical choice and passion, rather than pain, despair, or a really good joke on Facebook at 6am.

I was not yet relieved. I explained my concern, given that Mom has been fighting both a kidney infection, and the infection known as cellulitis over the past week or so, my concern was severe, and was she actually OKAY? She assured me that she was, and kindly helped me to prepare breakfast (cottage cheese, with fruit for me, and usually half a Cost-co muffin for each of us).

Last night Mom was inspired to bake, and she made some little muffins about 1/4 the size of the generous serving of a Costco muffin, so we had two of these each to begin, and ended up going back for two more apiece. She made something from one of her collection of cookbooks, that had the texture roughly, of a corn muffin (like corn bread but as a muffin) but more moist, and with bits of fruit inside. These had dried cranberries substituted for currants, and mango marmalade, substituted for standard marmalade. They were good, somewhat saltier than expected, falling somewhere between sweet and savory in the flavor profile, but very definitely good.

Mom did ask for feedback last night, and I shared mine as we sat and ate. I think soaking the cranberries in a juice would help plump them up for future baking, and I felt that at the level of savory flavor and texture, they could do well with cheese, or cheese and little bits of ham.


My response to panic is to assess the situation, verbally dissect it (well past the point of death), and then fall apart and apologize. I do well in crises, honestly. I can hold it together and assess, direct, take (or relent) control and make sure the situation is properly corrected/diverted/etc, but I fall apart after, and it's not pretty.

My early morning experience today ended with my literally crying into a muffin, apologizing (repeatedly) for being unable to stop speaking. I also helpfully offered to cry for Mom since clearly that was all I was capable of doing, and was there anything I could help her grieve with?

This could be funny (odd, interesting to study) if this weren't what I experience with EVERY DAMNED Panic Attack.

I'm pretty sure Osaka and my mother have the patience of Saints.

Good morning to you all. I'm hiding in my room with my returned migraine until quite possibly Christmas morning.