Woke up this morning with my mouth dry and metallic, nauseous, heart racing, no feeling in my fingers or toes, absolutely certain that as soon as I got out of bed something horrible would happen. And naturally, this was one of the few days my husband decided to not wake me up to say goodbye, so I was alone.

Ah yes. I remember these. Panic attacks. Where your body tricks you into thinking you’re dying. Where something short-circuits for whatever undiscernable reason and you get flung into fight-or-flight without so much as a by-your-leave. I haven’t had one of these for a while.

I forced myself out of bed and decided to take a relaxing lavender bath with some Bach playing. Normally this would be a one-two combination that would have me calm again in no time. Instead, I got back pain in the tub.

What? What does my body (or my mind?) want from me? Does it want to be kept busy and tired all the time? Does it want room to relax and take a look around? No matter what I do I seem to run up against a wall. I don’t know whether my subconscious is panicking because it sees two months of not-working looming ever closer, or if it’s breaking down because it knows the end is in sight.

My husband broke my cat’s bowl last night, her beautiful perfect blue bowl that I threw myself on a pottery wheel over twelve years ago. It was the best piece I produced. When I saw it I just looked at it, feeling dull. Normally I’d feel more upset. I know, it’s just the cat’s bowl, but it was a piece of my artwork. He glued it back together, but it won’t leave my brain for some reason. It bothers me.