it's not a cry that you hear at night-it's not someone who's seen the light-it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

Yesterday I received in the mail one of my favorite pieces of corresponedance-the medical bill that has gone to collections. Oh joy-I haven't had one of those in months. The slightest bit of research proved to me that this bill should've been paid by my beloved car insurance. But wasn't. And no previous bills were sent to my address. I would know, because you see, Gentle Reader, I have bill phobia. If a bill shows up at my house I pay it as soon as I notice it's a bill. I don't throw away questionable envelops or ignore things with hope they'll go away. To sound like a late nineties guest on Jerry Springer-"I pay my bills!"
So it is terror similar to encountering a snake on a muthafuckin' plane that strikes me when I get these bills. And they happen what to me seems a lot. More than once in life is a lot.
I told my parents about this and said that I was concerned that I would panic. My chest hurt and I felt claustrophobic-not horrible, but unpleasant. But I dealt with the situation, watched some Jeeves and Wooster and was feeling pretty happy. Jeeves and Wooster can cure any crummy situation.
Sometime during the Daily Show my heart started beating much too fast. It hurt. My chest hurt, I couldn't breathe. I was dying. No question about it-there was no other explanation. I was going to die and there was nothing I could do. I tried to take a drink of water, breathe, anything. I managed to stand up and fell down face first onto the floor. There was no amount of fear that would equate to what I was feeling-I grabbed onto my video rack and tried to pull myself up. The dog started to whine and I somehow managed to put together the thought that he needed to go out, and I succeeded. We got outside, he peed and I nearly crawled back into the apartment. How that managed to happen I don't know. I stumbled into the bathroom-God, I was in so much pain. Make it stop. My chest was going to explode and there's no one going to know, only reason anyone will notice I'm not around is because my bills will all be deliquent. I'm going to die and no one will notice for days. Everything blurred and melted. I turned on the shower and stepped under the hot water. I turned my back to the spray and crumpled down under the water. On the way down I collided with the faucet, bruising my back. I was in so much pain-I just sat there begging for the pain to end. The hot water ran out. The pounding in my chest was lessening. I was either actually dying or recovering. I wasn't sure of anything but a desperate need to vomit. But I couldn't. I couldn't move or think. I just pulled a towel off the rack and curled up on the floor of the bathtub and tried to breathe.
Then, as quick and irrationally as it came it was over. And I got up and got dressed and watched Colbert.
A classic panic attack. Something I've experienced most of my life-but not so outside of the trauma. I was over it-I knew what I had to do. More bills that need paid with more money I don't have. More damage to my fragile and distorted sense of what's important.
"This is why I didn't go to the doctor, Ma. This is why I almost died. Not because I'm afraid of doctors but because I'm afraid of doctors' bills."
People fear small spaces or spiders or falling. I fear bills, debt-I fear losing control. Loss of control means not having power over my own mind. My mind, my intellect, is the only part of me in which I am willing to place any faith. If I lose that I don't have anything. That's what I'm afraid of-it'll start with a few unpaid bills, then I'll skip work, gain weight because I've stopped cooking and before long I'm the shell of a person that couldn't remember the alphabet, that sat for hours trying to understand Children's programming on PBS.
One slip and I'm tumbling back, spiralling until anything I trust about myself is gone and I'm the thing I loathe most-the person I was.