Pulse.

How does one increase own pulse rate from a regular steady 80-84 to a breakneck racing 154? Simple: run into the theatre where you are doing a show and find yourself face-to-face with your ex sitting at the ticket desk. You know, the EX? As my friend puts it, The One That Almost Kills You. Fan-fucking-tastic!

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Unsettled.

Sunday morning. I am on a set, filming inserts for the play that I am doing. There is a great cast of people associated with this production. I did my part in two takes and helped out on the set for other’s camera time. I should be feeling great!

And yet yours truly is unsettled. I still get constantly rattled by sudden pangs of memory of love lost. It is not helping, of course, that my favourite and most important day of the year is coming up (no, it is not my birthday) and last year I spent it with who I thought (and despite everything, frankly still feel) was the most wonderful human being in the world.

People in my life keep telling me that I am a great chap, that I have a lot of things going for me, that I am funny and interesting. So why don’t I feel it? Why do I not feel that I deserve good things? Why have I never felt that way in my entire life?

The Inevitable. Part II.

(Continued from The Inevitable.)

It has been a few hours since The Encounter, if it can even be called that. I kept walking and it is doubtful she had even seen me. Granted, it was only a matter of time until our paths would cross; but it was shocking nevertheless.

And yet, that is not the full story for an ironic twist made the whole experience far worse. I was on my way to the theatre for sketch practice. The sketch we were working on was about unrequited love. Great! In the whole sketch I have only one word at the end of it. We were practicing doing things in different ways and basically just doing the sketch about unrequited love over, and over, and over again and, as much as I am looking forward to the full performance in a big show, the entire bloody time I was thinking that I would rather have been any-fucking-where else doing anything else but that bloody sketch.

The Inevitable.

Panic attack. Through years of practice I learned to automatically breath with my “stomach” (lower lung section). It is instinctual by now. But those instincts do not work right now. That learned behaviour is overridden by primal panic. I draw short ragged breaths as my chest rises and collapses in adrenaline-induced spasms. My heart beats like the loudest gong in my head. Sweat rolls down my head and the roots of my hairs feel like they are white hot. A buzzing feeling permeates my skin throughout my body. My mouth is dry and my tongue and fingers no longer feel like my own.

I was wondering what would happen if and when I saw my ex. Now I know.