Panic Attacks for Under-Medicated Slackers
Zadie Smith once wrote this of Zen-philosophy: “Don’t just stand there! Sit down…”
Do you feel like you’re in a vacuum one second, and stuck in a tropical storm the next? Sorry, that’s just me hyperventilating.
There’s no room for panic-attacks in Zen.
I’ve had three separate talks on sexual and romantic relationships with three separate friends this past two weeks. I don’t know why everyone’s suddenly in the mood to talk of romance or the lack of – must be something in the air, or the water…… Here’s what I think of romance, and lust and temporary insanity (call it whatever you want to call it): While I find it a novel, charming concept in theory, when I think of the possibility of something like that actually happening to me (rock star worship, obsessions and fantasies don’t count), I panic with a capital P and a capital A-N-I-C to add to it– my heart rate goes up, my muscles tense, I breathe more rapidly, I put on the goofiest, most unattractive, uncomfortable smile my goofy face can manage and my eyes widen like your typical deer caught in headlights. The eyes widening part is the precious bit since my eyes are not exactly what you would call large – when I smile in pictures, they tend to disappear – they look like someone took a kohl pencil and drew two lines where my eyes should be.
It’s not just relationship/ commitment-phobia, this is extreme, this is very-very-casual dating-phobia. And some people wonder why I’ve been single all my life. I can’t even handle being liked in that way let alone loved. A friend of mine once commented how strange it is that I’m able to form such “fantastically solid friendships” (her words, not mine) but not even a vague (very, very vague) hint of a romantic or in the least, sexual relationship. Seriously, how does she expect me to do that when I can’t even breathe at the slightest thought of someone (other than my current rock star du jour) only remotely fancying me? I’ll be dead and blue 30 minutes before the first date. Charming. Tim Burton can do a biopic of me and call it The Corpse Date.
Groucho Marx once said something about how he wouldn’t want to be part of any club that wanted him as a member. In my case, it’s not that I don’t want to, I don’t subscribe to that brand of snooty-ism, it’s more of I can’t understand why any club would want me as a member. If they tell me they do, I get the feeling that a) they’re lying or b) their cognitive ability is impaired by an overdose of psychotropic substances. Based on history, here’s my train of thought whenever someone tells me of their (mild) fondness for me in ways other than strictly and chastely platonic: Why? Are you kidding me? What’s wrong with you? Who put you up to this? Can’t you see that I lack the required genetic code that would enable me to function as anything other than a strictly platonic and chaste friend? Haven’t you read my blog? Can’t you tell from it that I’m nuts? I have serious issues – it’s written on my forehead. Are you blind? Have you seen what I look like? Are you a sucker for punishment, for pain? Seriously, who put you up to this?
As you can tell, even the passive approach to dating and relationships cause me great stress that I think it’s safe to say that I never take the pro-active approach to it. Even if the guy took the first serve and the ball is in my court, I would just watch the ball bounce away…bop….bop…bop…grab my towel, walk off and take a long, cold shower. Even if I was hit on the head with the ball, I wouldn’t throw it back in retaliation. I would just lose consciousness. Charming. But take note, I’m no fainting damsel. Don’t rescue me. Leave me alone. Why don’t you want to rescue me? What? I’m not cute enough? What are you doing? Leave me alone. Wait, come back! No, don’t. Wait……
Do you feel like you’re hanging out with a lame, sub-par intelligence imitation of Woody Allen? Sorry, that’s just me and my neurosis.
Generally speaking, don’t tell me you like me only to change your mind some time down the line. And trust me, you will, once the effects of whatever drug it is you’re taking wears off. Or you’re back on your medication. I mean, I can’t blame people for changing their minds. I’m listed in the thesaurus as an alternative word for fickle. I can like something so intensely one minute and forgot why I ever did the next. Wait, that doesn’t mean I’m fickle. That just means I have very poor memory. But then, if for some odd, incomprehensible reason you find yourself liking me, don’t drop vague hints, please spell it out for me. I’m no good at hints. I’m bad at Charades. I’m bad at Cluedo. I get easily confused by hints, so much that I ignore them. But then, if you do indeed spell it out for me, it would only send me into a debilitating state of panic. Paralysis. Sorry, no one’s home. No brain waves recorded. Blink. Blink.
I don’t think it’s so much the sexual aspect of dating and relationships that put me off (although I am apprehensive about it mostly because I hate doing things that I don’t really have a clue on how to go about doing hence why I generally, in all areas, never do anything since I’m generally clueless). I think it’s the emotional aspect that scares the living daylights out of me. A friend of mine, another one, once told me that if I don’t open myself up to the possibility of rejection, hurt and heartbreak that I would never ever feel that great sense of belonging, happiness and that blissful feet-elevating kinda love every other damn person talks about. If you never put in an application, you will never be rejected or accepted. That’s fine by me. I’m not looking for love. Heck, I’m not even looking for an ultra-casual good time or maybe I am but I panic when I find it to the point where I can’t make myself look anymore. Right now, I’m about mature enough to handle a grand total of two emotions in regard to my love and lust life: i) bored, chaste, single but unavailable, ii) comfortably bored, chaste, single and unavailable. Ok, that’s not so much emotion as it is a state of being. Sure, I bitch about it occasionally. In theory, I’m open to changing my state of dateless-ness/ chasteness (lets not even talk about my singledom yet), really, I am. Go on, ask me out, or just ask me for a kiss, really. No, not really. But go on, stroke my ego, tell me I’m desirable. Then again, don’t. Then again, please do, my ego needs it. No, just don’t.
Do you feel like you’re in a vacuum one second, and stuck in a tropical storm the next? Sorry, that’s just me hyperventilating.
I’m no good with expectations, any sort of expectations – my expectations of others, and their expectations of me. Sure, I have dreams of running away with a rock band and starting my own cult but those are merely sweet little reveries, I don’t actually expect them to happen and the best part is, no one expects it of me. I’ve worked long and hard for nearly two decades to create a pressure-free, expectation-free zone for me to live in. It’s the dullest place to be in but also, the most comfortable. Expectations of any sort send me into uncontrollable and incapacitating fits of anxiety. If you know me in real life, and not just through this blog in which I let my neurosis run wild and free, don’t let the laid-back Zen-ed out slacker persona fool you – that’s just me overcompensating for how easily things, even the smallest of things send me flying in panic. I believe the anxiety stems from the fact that I have this major tendency to fuck up the most minor of tasks. For example: The other day, I had to go to the bank (Tabung Haji to be specific) to withdraw a large sum of money that I can’t spend frivolously because it’s basically my parents’ money (it’s just in an account under my name). It was a sweltering hot day and there I was, stuck in my ratty car with the broken air-conditioning in crawling KL traffic. It took me nearly an hour to get to the Tabung Haji building and another 30 minutes to find parking. And after all that pain, thirst, sweat and swearing at random drivers and 70 year old jaywalkers, no money could be withdrawn because the brilliant me had left my Identity Card (along with my whole wallet) at home, hence the bank authorities could not verify me as the real owner of the account (get a retina-scan machine already, you turds!). So there I was, back in the sauna-on-wheels that I have the displeasure of calling my car, enduring another one hour of KL traffic, driving home to get my IC. Here’s the clincher: The next day, I realized that Tabung Haji has a branch in Kelana Jaya, which is only 15 minutes away from where I live. And the best part is, I’ve been there countless of times before. This incident wouldn’t be a big deal if it was just a rare occurrence in my life but it isn’t; it’s part of a greater pattern of major and minor fuck-ups committed by yours truly. (I frequently forget where I park my car. I still can’t tie my shoelaces without it unraveling 3 minutes later (and therefore God invented flip-flops) I’ve never had a pet that survived longer than 6 years of being under my care). I get the feeling that I’m ill-equipped to do anything but mope in my parents’ house for life. And mooch of them. But in an utterly, sullen non-charming, un-golden child –like way.
I’m thinking, how am I going to survive on my own in Australia next year? I’m thinking, how am I going to graduate, get a job and hold on to it? I’m thinking about how I will no longer be officially considered a teenager at the end of the year. When I turned 19 last year, my biggest worry was that my friends and I had gone too far with trashing the hotel suite where my party was held (actually, no, what am I talking about -that was just too funny to cause me any worry). But now I’m thinking how on earth am I going to pass off and survive as an adult? I’m thinking, I’m thinking, I’m thinking, how the hell, how the hell, how the hell, oh, what the hell, oh, bloody hell!!!!!
Do you feel like you’re in a vacuum one second, and stuck in a tropical storm the next? Sorry, that’s just me hyperventilating.
You’re wrong if you think what I need right now is a great boost in confidence and self esteem. What I really need is enough tranquilizers to put down Seabiscuit. Just so I can stop hyperventilating my life away, you know…………..
That, or a paperbag.
To breathe into.
And another to put over my face.
Do you feel like you’re in a vacuum one second, and stuck in a tropical storm the next? Sorry, that’s just me hyperventilating.
There’s no room for panic-attacks in Zen.
I’ve had three separate talks on sexual and romantic relationships with three separate friends this past two weeks. I don’t know why everyone’s suddenly in the mood to talk of romance or the lack of – must be something in the air, or the water…… Here’s what I think of romance, and lust and temporary insanity (call it whatever you want to call it): While I find it a novel, charming concept in theory, when I think of the possibility of something like that actually happening to me (rock star worship, obsessions and fantasies don’t count), I panic with a capital P and a capital A-N-I-C to add to it– my heart rate goes up, my muscles tense, I breathe more rapidly, I put on the goofiest, most unattractive, uncomfortable smile my goofy face can manage and my eyes widen like your typical deer caught in headlights. The eyes widening part is the precious bit since my eyes are not exactly what you would call large – when I smile in pictures, they tend to disappear – they look like someone took a kohl pencil and drew two lines where my eyes should be.
It’s not just relationship/ commitment-phobia, this is extreme, this is very-very-casual dating-phobia. And some people wonder why I’ve been single all my life. I can’t even handle being liked in that way let alone loved. A friend of mine once commented how strange it is that I’m able to form such “fantastically solid friendships” (her words, not mine) but not even a vague (very, very vague) hint of a romantic or in the least, sexual relationship. Seriously, how does she expect me to do that when I can’t even breathe at the slightest thought of someone (other than my current rock star du jour) only remotely fancying me? I’ll be dead and blue 30 minutes before the first date. Charming. Tim Burton can do a biopic of me and call it The Corpse Date.
Groucho Marx once said something about how he wouldn’t want to be part of any club that wanted him as a member. In my case, it’s not that I don’t want to, I don’t subscribe to that brand of snooty-ism, it’s more of I can’t understand why any club would want me as a member. If they tell me they do, I get the feeling that a) they’re lying or b) their cognitive ability is impaired by an overdose of psychotropic substances. Based on history, here’s my train of thought whenever someone tells me of their (mild) fondness for me in ways other than strictly and chastely platonic: Why? Are you kidding me? What’s wrong with you? Who put you up to this? Can’t you see that I lack the required genetic code that would enable me to function as anything other than a strictly platonic and chaste friend? Haven’t you read my blog? Can’t you tell from it that I’m nuts? I have serious issues – it’s written on my forehead. Are you blind? Have you seen what I look like? Are you a sucker for punishment, for pain? Seriously, who put you up to this?
As you can tell, even the passive approach to dating and relationships cause me great stress that I think it’s safe to say that I never take the pro-active approach to it. Even if the guy took the first serve and the ball is in my court, I would just watch the ball bounce away…bop….bop…bop…grab my towel, walk off and take a long, cold shower. Even if I was hit on the head with the ball, I wouldn’t throw it back in retaliation. I would just lose consciousness. Charming. But take note, I’m no fainting damsel. Don’t rescue me. Leave me alone. Why don’t you want to rescue me? What? I’m not cute enough? What are you doing? Leave me alone. Wait, come back! No, don’t. Wait……
Do you feel like you’re hanging out with a lame, sub-par intelligence imitation of Woody Allen? Sorry, that’s just me and my neurosis.
Generally speaking, don’t tell me you like me only to change your mind some time down the line. And trust me, you will, once the effects of whatever drug it is you’re taking wears off. Or you’re back on your medication. I mean, I can’t blame people for changing their minds. I’m listed in the thesaurus as an alternative word for fickle. I can like something so intensely one minute and forgot why I ever did the next. Wait, that doesn’t mean I’m fickle. That just means I have very poor memory. But then, if for some odd, incomprehensible reason you find yourself liking me, don’t drop vague hints, please spell it out for me. I’m no good at hints. I’m bad at Charades. I’m bad at Cluedo. I get easily confused by hints, so much that I ignore them. But then, if you do indeed spell it out for me, it would only send me into a debilitating state of panic. Paralysis. Sorry, no one’s home. No brain waves recorded. Blink. Blink.
I don’t think it’s so much the sexual aspect of dating and relationships that put me off (although I am apprehensive about it mostly because I hate doing things that I don’t really have a clue on how to go about doing hence why I generally, in all areas, never do anything since I’m generally clueless). I think it’s the emotional aspect that scares the living daylights out of me. A friend of mine, another one, once told me that if I don’t open myself up to the possibility of rejection, hurt and heartbreak that I would never ever feel that great sense of belonging, happiness and that blissful feet-elevating kinda love every other damn person talks about. If you never put in an application, you will never be rejected or accepted. That’s fine by me. I’m not looking for love. Heck, I’m not even looking for an ultra-casual good time or maybe I am but I panic when I find it to the point where I can’t make myself look anymore. Right now, I’m about mature enough to handle a grand total of two emotions in regard to my love and lust life: i) bored, chaste, single but unavailable, ii) comfortably bored, chaste, single and unavailable. Ok, that’s not so much emotion as it is a state of being. Sure, I bitch about it occasionally. In theory, I’m open to changing my state of dateless-ness/ chasteness (lets not even talk about my singledom yet), really, I am. Go on, ask me out, or just ask me for a kiss, really. No, not really. But go on, stroke my ego, tell me I’m desirable. Then again, don’t. Then again, please do, my ego needs it. No, just don’t.
Do you feel like you’re in a vacuum one second, and stuck in a tropical storm the next? Sorry, that’s just me hyperventilating.
I’m no good with expectations, any sort of expectations – my expectations of others, and their expectations of me. Sure, I have dreams of running away with a rock band and starting my own cult but those are merely sweet little reveries, I don’t actually expect them to happen and the best part is, no one expects it of me. I’ve worked long and hard for nearly two decades to create a pressure-free, expectation-free zone for me to live in. It’s the dullest place to be in but also, the most comfortable. Expectations of any sort send me into uncontrollable and incapacitating fits of anxiety. If you know me in real life, and not just through this blog in which I let my neurosis run wild and free, don’t let the laid-back Zen-ed out slacker persona fool you – that’s just me overcompensating for how easily things, even the smallest of things send me flying in panic. I believe the anxiety stems from the fact that I have this major tendency to fuck up the most minor of tasks. For example: The other day, I had to go to the bank (Tabung Haji to be specific) to withdraw a large sum of money that I can’t spend frivolously because it’s basically my parents’ money (it’s just in an account under my name). It was a sweltering hot day and there I was, stuck in my ratty car with the broken air-conditioning in crawling KL traffic. It took me nearly an hour to get to the Tabung Haji building and another 30 minutes to find parking. And after all that pain, thirst, sweat and swearing at random drivers and 70 year old jaywalkers, no money could be withdrawn because the brilliant me had left my Identity Card (along with my whole wallet) at home, hence the bank authorities could not verify me as the real owner of the account (get a retina-scan machine already, you turds!). So there I was, back in the sauna-on-wheels that I have the displeasure of calling my car, enduring another one hour of KL traffic, driving home to get my IC. Here’s the clincher: The next day, I realized that Tabung Haji has a branch in Kelana Jaya, which is only 15 minutes away from where I live. And the best part is, I’ve been there countless of times before. This incident wouldn’t be a big deal if it was just a rare occurrence in my life but it isn’t; it’s part of a greater pattern of major and minor fuck-ups committed by yours truly. (I frequently forget where I park my car. I still can’t tie my shoelaces without it unraveling 3 minutes later (and therefore God invented flip-flops) I’ve never had a pet that survived longer than 6 years of being under my care). I get the feeling that I’m ill-equipped to do anything but mope in my parents’ house for life. And mooch of them. But in an utterly, sullen non-charming, un-golden child –like way.
I’m thinking, how am I going to survive on my own in Australia next year? I’m thinking, how am I going to graduate, get a job and hold on to it? I’m thinking about how I will no longer be officially considered a teenager at the end of the year. When I turned 19 last year, my biggest worry was that my friends and I had gone too far with trashing the hotel suite where my party was held (actually, no, what am I talking about -that was just too funny to cause me any worry). But now I’m thinking how on earth am I going to pass off and survive as an adult? I’m thinking, I’m thinking, I’m thinking, how the hell, how the hell, how the hell, oh, what the hell, oh, bloody hell!!!!!
Do you feel like you’re in a vacuum one second, and stuck in a tropical storm the next? Sorry, that’s just me hyperventilating.
You’re wrong if you think what I need right now is a great boost in confidence and self esteem. What I really need is enough tranquilizers to put down Seabiscuit. Just so I can stop hyperventilating my life away, you know…………..
That, or a paperbag.
To breathe into.
And another to put over my face.
