For those of you who have asked and who read this — we haven’t had any more issues with Scary Larry the Fraud Victim. The Detective on the case is going to let us know if they catch their man. I don’t know how they could, unless he actually lives in my complex and the Fed Ex guy gave an amazing sketch artist a photo-likeness of the crook.
In other news, I flew to Florida last week for my grandmother’s funeral. It was nice.
Flying back was rough, however. I’m pretty positive I have a low-grade anxiety disorder mixed in with my bipolarity, and while the Prozac does wonders to keep me from being depressed, I think an anti-anxiety med might be in order in the future.
I’m not afraid of flying or crashing or anything like that — although I do wonder every time I get on a plane if we’ll crash and die, and I brace myself to remain calm should something happen that results in an unexpected change of altitude. The anxiety stems from no “fear” that I can name — just a huge discomfort in being trapped in those seats for so long. It kills me! Can’t explain it much better than that.
Except, perhaps, that it’s like when you’re stuck in class, or church, or something, and you feel the NEED to get up and leave. Not too much of a problem, generally, except that when you’re in a plane there’s no where to go.
Don’t really want to add another drug to my daily regimen, but it might be nice to be able to sit still in class. Even now my legs are pumping up and down, ready, presumably, to run me away to someplace less cramped than my memories of that airplane. Calm down, body. We’re not cramped here. I was just REMEMBERING the cramped feeling.
I’m not claustrophobic, either — I love spelunking and tight spaces and squeezing through holes and stuff — but maybe there’s a phobia of sitting still. If I had to sit in a chair in the middle of an open field, I could feel this way. But, again, it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like anxiety. Tense, nervous, anxiousness.