Yesterday I had a big big anxiety attack. Complete panic and totally alone. I don't know precisely what caused it, but I felt it grow and grow, and I couldn't get away. Was it because of the book I was reading (Kafka at the beach from Murakami)? Or because of my very sick father? Or because of the menopause? Or because of changing medicine? Or (most likely) because I can't reach my partner? And probably a bit of all the other things. I can't reach my feelings at the moment.
Somebody told me in the middle of the attack I was very ungrateful because I had so many good things in my life. That made it only worse, because for me an anxiety attack is the worst thing that can happen to me. Why should I be grateful for feeling so miserable? Nothing is worst than feeling existential loneliness. Of course that's not true (I never have experienced famine of torture for example), but I felt anger and frustration building up and I began to shout. I must remember next time: go away.
Today my head is quite empty and I like it that way.
The story below is a beautiful story of the dutch author Toon Tellegen about loneliness. Sometimes I really like it.