E.T. – Phone Home

The heaviness on my chest convinced me I was having a heart attack.  I knew I wasn’t too far gone because I had enough energy to Google “symptoms of a heart attack.”  I didn’t have a tingling sensation down my arm, but maybe I was already too far gone.    But really?  Do people have heart attacks at my age?

“What is the earliest age reported of a heart a-t-t-a-c-k?”

Crap.  Google says yes.

Maybe I am having a heart attack.  I did eat three hotdogs at the football game on Sunday.  I better take an aspirin. 

I continued to study site after site on what could possibility be wrong with me and why I was having a hard time catching my breath.  At one point I resorted to some Lamaze-like breathing just so I could get some air in my lungs.  I couldn’t concentrate on the breathing.  I just kept losing focus on the make-believe anvil sitting on top of me.

According to Dr. Google, I was apparently having a panic attack – a FULL BLOWN panic attack.  Google said they were painful.  Google said people think they are having heart attack, even when they aren’t.  Google said the good news is – people don’t die from panic attacks.

Hell, I’m taking another aspirin.  Google might be wrong.

I stretched out on the office floor wondering if there was a chance I was an alien and how many times I’d need to wash my hair to get out whatever I just got in it off of the disgusting carpet. Ahhh…the anvil was so heavy.  My breathing was so labored.   I rolled over and grabbed my phone.   Someone send help.

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Text:  So I’m really having a rough time.

Response:  Me too.  My stylist is out for two weeks for vacation.  OMG.  My hair is going to be sooooo ridiculous by the time she gets back.

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Text:  So I’m really having a rough time.

Response:  I don’t understand.

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Text:  So I’m really having a rough time.

Response:  Waa waa

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This is why I feel like I’m from outer space.  Despite the countless hours I’ve sat and listened about broken relationships and crappy jobs and unmet needs and endless worries and on and on and on and on………..when I put out the S.O.S. flares, I get a “waa waa.”   Guess what?  There are things that stress me out – jobs…relationships…finances….hopes….dreams….failures….what-ifs.  How is it possible that I’m surrounded by so many people and feel so alone sometimes?   Maybe I am an alien.

Over the weekend I asked Manfriend, “Do you think it is weird that I don’t feel like anyone ‘gets’ me?”

Sometimes I like to remove myself from the situation and watch that uneasy look come over his face as he carefully thinks through his answer before he speaks, just in case the question is a set up and he is walking into a trap.  Sometimes I like to watch him squirm.

This time I saved him.

“This isn’t a trap.  I’m being serious.  At my age is it uncommon to have so many acquaintances, but so few people who understand who you are, what you’re going through, and will save you when you need it?”  I continued to tell him the hours I’ve spent wishing that someone understood how my brain functions.

Manfriend responded, “I think it’s common to have ninety-nine percent of people in your life who don’t really know you, but one percent who are there when you really need them.  Try not to look at it as a bad thing.  Look at it as “Occupy Heidi’s Head” where the one-percenters rule.”

Hmmmm…  It was deep.  He knew I’d run with it.  It was like one of those raw hide bones that a dog chews on for days before he loses interest.  Smart man.

I started giving it a lot of thought.  It isn’t like the 99% are wrong.  They are my friends.  They show up at my parties, laugh at my stories, like to go shopping with me, and enjoy gossiping about what’s going on around town.  However, they don’t “get” me.  They have no idea how to deal with me, or how my brain works, or show up when I send them a text saying “911.”  It’s all a joke.  Everything is a joke.  It is the 99% who when we get past the generic façade of every day gibbly-gop, that the looks on their faces glaze over when I try to tell them that there are some days when I just want to run away from home.  They give me the awkward laugh.  They don’t “get” that I have “heart attacks” in the middle of the day on my office floor.  It’s almost like I can read their thoughts: “Heidi must have forgotten to take her meds today.”

The temper tantrums of “no one understands me” most often overshadow the heroes of the one-percent.  The one-percenters are beyond friends.  You’d think I’d respect that more than I do.  I admit.  I take the one-percenters for granted.  More often than not, they are the ones who are “lucky” enough to get the backstage passes of my life, and not like VIP tickets to a Justin Bieber concert, but more like a dreaded look beyond the privacy door… at a butcher shop… where they make sausage.  It ain’t pretty.

I really shouldn’t have eaten those hotdogs on Sunday.

“No one understands me,” I cry as they sit there patiently listening, being an objective observer, trying their best to work with what I’m giving them.  I overlook the fact that they “get” me.  They sit there and take it, never once reminding me that they’ve always been there.  They always will be there.

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Text:  So I’m really having a rough time.

Response:  Where are you?  Stay put.  I’m on my way.

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And yet, it is the one-percenters that always come through when I really need them.

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Text:  An alien is having a heart attack on my office floor.

Response:  Give it some vodka, a few Swedish Fish, and wrap it up in your Hello Kitty blanket.

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They might not be large in number, but they are still the one-percent, and that’s more than nothing.  It’s everything.

Love, Heidi

xoxo