No one ever told me how panic attacks can be quiet. How you can wake up in a beam of sunlight with a soft cat draped across your ankles and you can still feel a little like you’re dying.
I feel a little like I’m dying.
Nothing happened. Nothing new. I read the story again that makes me sad, that makes me feel all twisted up inside, that makes me think and think and remember and remember and feel like a fool.
And I should call someone, right? I should tell someone I’m not okay. But I’m a little cowardly so I come here instead and try to yank some pretty words out of myself, try to make it count. Try not to feel like such a waste of space.
5 things you can see: A stuffed dinosaur (his name is Spike), an empty mug, a half-empty (ha) cup of water, a stuffed penguin (Waddles, you’ve met), a lamp, turned on.
4 things you can touch: the cool keyboard, the flannel unicorn pillowcase, the fuzzy Spider-Man 2 blanket, Spike the soft dinosaur.
3 things you can hear: “Rhapsody in Blue” drifting from my phone, someone mowing their lawn outside, the weird buzz of the ceiling fan.
2 things you can smell: the memory of coffee, something in the air like vanilla and cinnamon (my candle game is strong).
1 thing you can taste: stale coffee breath. I should probably brush my fucking teeth.
(Did I do it? Am I okay now?)
I am not shaking or rattling, I am not fighting to suck down my own breath. But my insides feel on the verge of leaking out of my toenails but wait, how do I have any insides left I feel so fucking empty?
There is this ever present panic of What if I don’t get into grad school? Because I am out of other ideas. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how else to be proud of myself. I don’t know how else to not be a failure. I DO NOT HAVE A BACK-UP PLAN ANYMORE THIS WAS THE THOUSANDTH PLAN.
I scheme and I apply to things and I dare to dream, but I’m really tired today, so do I still have to? Do I always have to “keep moving forward,” Uncle Walt? Can I lie here in my bathrobe and get my wind back? I feel a little like I’m dying.
(Spider-Man wouldn’t talk to me this way, I know that.)
I feel a little like I’m dying. The world feels farther and farther away from my fingertips and I don’t know how I got here in the first place. I hide in my fluffy pink bathrobe all day because I do not want to look at my body, I do not want to contemplate the horrors of dressing it. Nothing fits, nothing feels right.
Nothing fits, nothing feels right.
I feel ugly. I feel like a creature, not a person. And if I am a person, I feel like a bad one.
It’s 2:10 in the afternoon and I am still in this bathrobe. And I logically know that I getting dressed and going for a walk would make me feel better, but maybe I don’t feel like I deserve to feel better, you know?
Didn’t I didn’t I didn’t I see you crying?
Feeling all alone without a friend, you know, you feel like dying
Oh, didn’t I didn’t didn’t I see you crying?