Panic
You kept it to yourself.
You didn't tell us about spending days with anxiety slowly creeping into your field of vision like an inky shadow. You didn't tell us about the dread that would find a solid grip on your heart. You had to whisper to yourself, "It's ok," over and over again like it was some sacred incantation that would set you free, even though you couldn't say what it was you wanted to be free from.
All the while, you lied to us. You bought shoes that ended up being half a size too big but showed them off anyway. You ate chocolates straight out of the box. You sat through movie marathons. You laughed at the television. And then when night came, you knew trying to fall asleep with nothing to distract you would be a trigger. You knew you could only be alone with yourself during the brightness of day, and that nightfull would inevitably bring another attack.
There was no one to talk to. There was nothing to say. How could you explain what you did not understand? The feeling of a space being too small? Or a tightness in your chest? How could you explain the feelings that you could not give a name to except Panic? -- Like it was some great beast of ancient mythology, like it was a painting in a museum filled with vague shapes and murky colors that some famous artist had completed before they found him hanged in his study.
You didn't tell us about spending days with anxiety slowly creeping into your field of vision like an inky shadow. You didn't tell us about the dread that would find a solid grip on your heart. You had to whisper to yourself, "It's ok," over and over again like it was some sacred incantation that would set you free, even though you couldn't say what it was you wanted to be free from.
All the while, you lied to us. You bought shoes that ended up being half a size too big but showed them off anyway. You ate chocolates straight out of the box. You sat through movie marathons. You laughed at the television. And then when night came, you knew trying to fall asleep with nothing to distract you would be a trigger. You knew you could only be alone with yourself during the brightness of day, and that nightfull would inevitably bring another attack.
There was no one to talk to. There was nothing to say. How could you explain what you did not understand? The feeling of a space being too small? Or a tightness in your chest? How could you explain the feelings that you could not give a name to except Panic? -- Like it was some great beast of ancient mythology, like it was a painting in a museum filled with vague shapes and murky colors that some famous artist had completed before they found him hanged in his study.