The urge to scream subsided, eventually, but his heart was still pounding, he was shaking and sweating, and he felt like he wasn’t getting enough air. Eventually, these attacks went away on their own, but if he didn’t do anything, even after they were over he was usually a wreck for the rest of the day. Knowing that, he wasn’t going to passively wait when there was something he could do to actually help himself.
Despite how unsteady he was, he managed to get to his feet; moving carefully, he walked to his bedroom and opened the closet door. As clichéd as it was, he had a secret compartment in the side of it; he pushed aside the business suits and felt for a small depression, then pushed on it.
With a quiet click, the hidden drawer opened; it was nearly full of sex toys, some intended for such extreme play they would probably make Germany blanch.
Japan ignored them all and felt around in the top of it until he found and pressed a second button, then closed the drawer again, turned to the opposite wall, and pushed on a panel; it was actually a slender door, leading to what used to be part of a storage room. He slipped inside, fumbled around until he found the light switch, and then gratefully dropped onto the couch that took up an entire wall of the small room. He still felt like he was going to collapse and die at any moment, but he had gotten where he needed to be safely, and he was within seconds of finding relief.
With still-trembling hands, he opened the tin of herbs—all pre-ground, because he couldn’t do much of anything when he was in need of them—and put a large pinch into the business end of the hose, then attached it to the vaporizer already set up on the table and turned it on.
Maybe it was just a conditioned response, but Japan would swear that his heart palpitations started to slow to a normal pace as soon as the sweet scent of marijuana started filling the room. He focused on breathing as evenly as he could for the time it took for the machine to heat up (less than a minute, though it always felt far longer) and then took the mouthpiece between his lips and inhaled. After so many centuries of use, he had trained himself to be able to hold in a lungful of the smoke or vapor as long as needed, no matter how much trouble he was having controlling his breathing.
Within minutes, his heart rate had slowed nearly to normal, he was breathing easily, and his trembling was coming to a stop. Japan exhaled a lungful of the sanity-saving vapor and actually smiled in relief; though he wasn’t willing to admit it in public, to him marijuana was a godsend—literally, Amaterasu herself had told him how even its smoke could benefit him (though of course Korea claimed he had been the one to introduce Japan to it). While he would very much prefer it if his panic attacks would just stop, they were tolerable with treatment; technically others existed, but in his experience, marijuana was his best bet.
“This is, of course, my own fault,” he admitted, looking at the ceiling; he was always a little chattier when high. “Really, why do I always do this?” The economy was bad, and yes, his boss wanted his reports very soon, but no one’s life was hanging in the balance. Doing governmental reports had little in common with the times in history when his decisions had been life or death for many; during some particularly dark times, he’d been having panic attacks every day, sometimes more than once. In more peaceful times, if he had a panic attack, he’d usually brought it upon himself.
Herbal Relief (2/?)
Despite how unsteady he was, he managed to get to his feet; moving carefully, he walked to his bedroom and opened the closet door. As clichéd as it was, he had a secret compartment in the side of it; he pushed aside the business suits and felt for a small depression, then pushed on it.
With a quiet click, the hidden drawer opened; it was nearly full of sex toys, some intended for such extreme play they would probably make Germany blanch.
Japan ignored them all and felt around in the top of it until he found and pressed a second button, then closed the drawer again, turned to the opposite wall, and pushed on a panel; it was actually a slender door, leading to what used to be part of a storage room. He slipped inside, fumbled around until he found the light switch, and then gratefully dropped onto the couch that took up an entire wall of the small room. He still felt like he was going to collapse and die at any moment, but he had gotten where he needed to be safely, and he was within seconds of finding relief.
With still-trembling hands, he opened the tin of herbs—all pre-ground, because he couldn’t do much of anything when he was in need of them—and put a large pinch into the business end of the hose, then attached it to the vaporizer already set up on the table and turned it on.
Maybe it was just a conditioned response, but Japan would swear that his heart palpitations started to slow to a normal pace as soon as the sweet scent of marijuana started filling the room. He focused on breathing as evenly as he could for the time it took for the machine to heat up (less than a minute, though it always felt far longer) and then took the mouthpiece between his lips and inhaled. After so many centuries of use, he had trained himself to be able to hold in a lungful of the smoke or vapor as long as needed, no matter how much trouble he was having controlling his breathing.
Within minutes, his heart rate had slowed nearly to normal, he was breathing easily, and his trembling was coming to a stop. Japan exhaled a lungful of the sanity-saving vapor and actually smiled in relief; though he wasn’t willing to admit it in public, to him marijuana was a godsend—literally, Amaterasu herself had told him how even its smoke could benefit him (though of course Korea claimed he had been the one to introduce Japan to it). While he would very much prefer it if his panic attacks would just stop, they were tolerable with treatment; technically others existed, but in his experience, marijuana was his best bet.
“This is, of course, my own fault,” he admitted, looking at the ceiling; he was always a little chattier when high. “Really, why do I always do this?” The economy was bad, and yes, his boss wanted his reports very soon, but no one’s life was hanging in the balance. Doing governmental reports had little in common with the times in history when his decisions had been life or death for many; during some particularly dark times, he’d been having panic attacks every day, sometimes more than once. In more peaceful times, if he had a panic attack, he’d usually brought it upon himself.