That's not how my life's going to be for long. This is a break, and not much of a break at that. I've got to finalize the outline for my History paper today, meaning I have to pare down my original idea which is more or less a thesis-sized paper to something that can fit into ten pages because I've got to write it over the next week and finish it the following week. I have a big test to prepare for. I ought to be practicing piano three times a week instead of two because I have two challenging pieces besides the Bach to prepare for recital. I'd like to say I'm not going to be doing a lot of diary writing in the next couple of weeks but in fact I often write daily when I'm extremely busy because I like to relax by writing instead of, say, watching television. Unless Buffy's on, of course.

Last week I went to see the doctor who prescribes a medication for my panic attacks. I see him every two months to make sure the medication level is correct and to assess how well it's working. I was anxious and upset about having to admit I've been close to having panic attacks lately. I mean really close, surprised-it-hasn't-gone-over-the-line close with all other symptoms present. Those symptoms, or those warning signs, are unmistakable, scary and unpleasant. My body feels bad, sick in a non-specific way. My mental state is just a little too prone to agitation lately. I'm not very happy about this, which is my typically understated way of saying please no please no please please don't go over the line, body, I'm sorry, I couldn't help it, I had to don't you understand, there was too much going on and it's only for a little while longer. There's never going to be a point in my life when I'm stress-free. Why are the boundaries shrinking? I used to be able to handle five or six stressful situations, now it's only two major stressors before I slip into panic mode.

Yet the medication works, because it's only the symptoms haunting me. We are relatively pleased about that, the doctor and I. He's not what I would call a warm man, it's not his job to be a fuzzy wuzzy it'll be okay kind of guy. He makes sure my chemistry gets sorted out and I need to do the rest. So the visit confirmed that the level of medication is fine for now but if I don't get to work on what's causing the situation I ought to sign up for a few sessions of therapy.

My doctor understood my response to that without my needing to say a word. He said it for me. He probably sees people like me year after year. Intelligent, high strung, relentlessly self-analytical, high personal standards, ashamed by the need to ask for help, angry at the body's betrayal, and afraid. He knew. So he told me to take two weeks and pull it together myself or call the psychologist I saw last year and arrange a couple of sessions with him.

I'm forever pleading with others to let a professional travel agent help them. I'm not going to allow myself to feel guilty if I need to ask a professional mental health expert to get me back on track. This is probably laughably American: doesn't everyone here have a shrink? No. Believe me, no. But it's not especially stigmatized, either.

I may not have to go. I know what's wrong. Being afraid is an old reflex. Ignoring my body is another. I think I will rejoin the gym this week instead of waiting until after the semester's over. It may seem counterintuitive to add another thing to do instead of dropping something when I'm feeling overloaded but exercise is the best thing for agitation and anomie. It only delays me going home by an hour. I would rather run off my troubles than talk about them to a therapist.

I'm going to run towards something instead of away from it.

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