“My therapist suggested…” should be the start of every story. I mean, think of the endless possibilities – all the genres it could easily cross. At least that’s what I think at this moment. I mean, I am the author (supreme overlord of my story), and it works for the purposes of my universe (today (I have to be specific, because who knows what tomorrow may bring). I’ve deemed it so. Physics… philosophy… they all work differently here.

Only children, am I right?

I was going to try to work a “Once Upon a Time” spin into all of this and make a ridiculous claim about Cinderella, but I backspaced all over that and thus saved you seconds of reading. Still, tell me that a story about Disney princesses in therapy wouldn’t be compelling. Oh, wait…

Let’s start again and finish the sentence.

My therapist suggested I write today.

Well, the truth is she asked what I could do that would help me, and I said, “Writing” and this is how writing became my homework. (Fun fact: “Watch a Steve Harvey clip from Family Feud” was also on the list, which I just checked off, soooo I’m clearly crushing therapy today. Fine, back to writing!)

Why do I need to write?

I had an anxiety attack last night.

These attacks are a recurring gift I received as a result of Jay’s death. A friend reached out almost on queue – as if he knew something was wrong, “Are you ok?” “No.” “Remember to breathe.” “Ok.” He sent me a guided video on box breathing. I tried. I lost focus every 3rd to 5th breath as tears spilled down my face.

I haven’t had an anxiety attack in nine months. If you understood how frequently they came before, you’d realize going this long is a huge deal. I made it through Jay’s birthday, my wedding anniversary, the anniversary of Jay’s death, our real anniversary (the one that matters to me), an “I’m in crisis” call, and another suicide within our family last month without having a single anxiety attack.

A lot of it made me very sad, but I could breathe. No attacks.

For a split second, I dared to believe the attacks were a thing of the past.

They weren’t.

Sunday finally tipped a bucket that had reached the top when I received a text that a friend I’d known since I was 16 had died. I had to make calls. I had to reach out and notify others. I had to console people. Meanwhile, I was trying to find help for a relative regarding a potential legal matter. More calls and texts as that story unfolded. I pivoted back and forth between the conversations while also just fielding the normal day-to-day texts that were coming through. “Happy Sunday!” “That looks so fun!” “What happened? Oh no!” I tried to tailor my response and feelings to each conversation as I tried to switch my focus to the matter at hand and then shove the other issues to the side over and over and over again.

A friend opened my front door in the middle of it all and I was just sitting there, a disheveled mess on the couch, holding my phone; I’d forgotten to get ready for our lunch date. “I’m sorry.”

On Monday I spent the day feeling numb and despondent as I replayed everything that happened Sunday – how I’d miss him, how I worried about the relative with the legal issues, and adding to that – thinking about how a friend and her “the best girl ever” dog, was saying goodbye that day – thinking about how sad I felt for her family and for myself – how I wouldn’t see those cute little ears bopping along as we walked around the block ever again. No more whiskery muzzle in my face as I rowed in her garage.

The evening rolled around and the numbness was replaced with an hours-long anxiety attack that was teetering precariously on a panic attack.

“Are you ok?” “No.”

That’s when I lucked into an appointment with my therapist, and today I received my homework.

Watch Steve Harvey.

Write.

… and the final one…

Cry.

Why do I need to write? I never really answered, did I? Writing is my outlet – one I’ve ignored for a while. It makes me happy. Maybe I’ll go for extra credit tomorrow. I don’t know. But I do plan to tell you about my friend and maybe I’ll also tell you a story about a special dog.