Under Pressure (For No Reason)

Every time for the past few weeks, I keep wanting to say, “Spring is here.” Technically, on the calendar it is, but up here, it depends on the day.

We went from a blizzard dumping a foot and a half of snow on us overnight to shirt-sleeve weather within five days, so we do not take the nice ones for granted.

On the crappy days, I remind myself I moved here for love, not the weather.
But I’m still California dreamin’.

Last weekend, as a bit of an impromptu escape - and a moment to snatch some alone time together in the rare good weather - my husband surprised me with an overnight getaway.

It was incredible. The hotel felt tailor-made for me, with its unique blend of elegance and hard-rock edge.

A bathtub big enough to swim in and a shower with so many sprays it felt like a human car wash.

Dinner was at this quiet, unique little spot steeped in history. Calm atmosphere, great table, no kids…everything exactly how it should be.

But before the appetizers were even ordered, I was in a full-blown panic attack.

And all I could think was goddamnit. Not again.

I’d been doing so well. I thought I was over it by now. But it doesn’t take much. Sometimes it’s not even what’s happening, but what I start thinking.

Ironically, I get so concerned about me ruining the special evening that I end up…ruining the special evening.

My husband, God love him, is incredibly patient and loving, which only makes me feel more guilty. Because when it's happening, I’m mentally beating myself up big time.

Next thing I knew (after half an hour hyperventilating in the bathroom), he had our meal packed up to go.

Back at the hotel, I was sitting on the bed in his t-shirt, taking tiny sips of Sprite, trying not to throw up while the smell of his food filled the room.

That was our night.

Looking back, I know the moment that caused it. It wasn’t even anything bad, just something that I wanted, and what he suggested wasn’t the same, and suddenly I felt like I had to justify myself when no one was ever asking me to.

We moved on, and everything was technically fine.

But for me, internally, it wasn’t.

I felt that familiar burning sting in my stomach, the one that spreads fast, like poison, until I can’t breathe and I’m instantly nauseous.

I felt it coming and knew, despite everything I’ve learned to try and get a handle on it – the breathing, the mantras, the cold touch on the neck – I couldn’t stop it.

So I tried to ride it out, smiling and nodding while the manager was chatting with us at the table, and the entire time, all I could think was:

Oh God, not again.
Please, just make it stop.
This isn’t fair.
I hate this.
Get a hold of yourself, damn it.
Why can’t I just be a normal goddamn woman on a date with her husband?
What is wrong with me?

You wouldn’t have known any of that from my expression until I couldn’t hold it in anymore and excused myself.

And I hate it. I hate that my husband can’t just enjoy a normal night out with his wife without this happening.

I hate that I can totally keep it together in actual emergencies, but something as simple as a damn question can take me out. Make that make sense.

My husband deserves better than this.

Despite that, the trip wasn’t a total disaster. Nothing actually fell apart between us. There was no fight or resentment or next-day tension.

He never even got mad or showed any disappointment. He handled it calmly and patiently, just like he always does.

We still had a great time together, with moments that were romantic and fun and light and normal and ours in a way that we don’t get much of.

I didn’t have to be Mom or Gigi. I didn’t have to be the one holding everything together at home or anticipating what might come next.

For a little while, before and after it happened, I just got to be with him. It actually kind of messes with my head because nothing was ruined.

But in my mind, I still feel like I messed up something good. I know that’s not entirely true, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like it's true.

And knowing better isn’t the same as feeling better.

That’s pretty frustrating because I’m alllll about details; I’m someone who breaks things down, figures them out, and makes it all make perfect sense to myself.

And this doesn’t. Not yet, anyway.  

I’ve already started writing about this, and I’m going to keep digging into it, because despite my efforts, I have yet to figure out why this keeps happening to me.  

And I already know this won’t be the last time it does.

Heather Papovich is the writer behind Unfinished Business, essays on real life, pop culture, and the fine art of not completely losing it.