Panic

(TRIGGER WARNING FOR ANXIETY)

Overwhelming rush of blood surges through your body. This isn’t unfamiliar. A old friend turned foe. The rising from your stomach to your chest, you’re sure you’re going to vomit. Vomit all the black stuff that sits inside you, poisoning you. When did this black monstrosity get inside? What did you eat? It has grow while you thought it slumbered. It’s coming back with a vengeance. Spiky limbs, too many to count.

But you haven’t thrown up, not yet. It’s waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Instead, you lie there, made numb and stiff as the rigor mortis sets in. You are dying. You’re sure of it. Or perhaps that’s what you want, so you don’t have to feel this anymore. Your breath burns in your chest, there’s too much trapped there and you realise you haven’t taken a proper breath in seconds that feel like hours and so it splits out of you but the burning only subsides for a moment before it’s back again. Each inhale lengthy, each exhale short. You don’t remember how to do this. A black river runs down your face from your eyes, clogging your ears, pouring into your mouth.

You realise so many truths all at once, the main being that you can’t do this. Of course you can’t. Life’s too hard and you’re too soft. It seems so many others were equipped to deal with this game, but you haven’t any pieces; no instructions, no answers. You drift through hoping that something, anything, will anchor you. Pretending that you know what you’re doing. You’re less than amateur. You’re a fraud. Playing at adulthood. Playing at life. Giving advice when you feel utterly lost and messed up inside.

What a joke.

Maybe that’s where it comes from, the fear of being found out. How can you be 29 and not know what you’re doing? Not know what you want next? Society knows! It’s told you plenty. All you have to do is perform. That’s it. Just fall in line and perform. Dance, monkey, dance! Perform. Knees up, toes pointed, twirl, twirl, twirl. No, not like that! Like them. Silly girl. You just aren’t cut out for this, are you?

Maybe your destiny is going back to your mother’s house, a failure with your tail between your legs, waiting to get old, waiting for an excuse not to have to perform this dance anymore.

Sincerely,

S. xx

(If you relate to this post, seek help and support. I know I’m not alone, even though it feels that way, and nor are you)