I lost my shit last night. The panic attacks are becoming more frequent. I snapped at Paul, he snapped back, and we each retreated into our corners to work it out by ourselves. He slammed around the kitchen and yelled at the cats for being under foot, and I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed until I was hyperventilating. After about 10 minutes, I was feeling a little better, so I washed my face with cold water, came out of the bathroom, and we both acted like nothing happened. I have to say, if Paul’s learned anything, it’s not to ask me what’s wrong when I’m that fragile. It will only make me blubber on his shoulder for hours and ultimately feel worse. On the other hand, a hug would have been nice.
