Thunder Only the Gods Hear.

6:30p.m.

I’ve been feeling this panic attack stirring up my head for hours now. I lose all functionality when this happens. I become klutzy. I can’t see straight or focus on anything. It’s almost as if my mind is attempting to not allow myself to fall over the ledge. In a way, this is what causes me to tip over. 

I guess it’s all well and good; these tip overs usually send me shooting up. And I somehow balance on the up, up, up for quite some time after I’ve spent a day on the downs. I know this is how it works, but it still takes a toll on my body.

10:42p.m.

Everything hurts after. My brain is exhausted. My eyes stings because I’ve cried so much they’ve dried out. My lungs are still gasping for air more frequently because they struggled too long forcing me to breathe when I couldn’t physically make myself. My muscles are sore from being tensed up for so long. But my emotional toll is a whole new level of vulnerable than I’m accustomed to. I can feel the the sadness spread about my body; no amounting of screaming or crying can make that disappear into thin air.

I still want to scream. I still want to hit something. Anything to make myself feel something other than the thunderous voices in my head telling me all the things I should be panicking about. But instead I’m curled up on the couch with a drink, struggling to believe tomorrow will be any better than today was. One can only hope. 

I hope I’m up tomorrow.  I hope I don’t have to bite my tongue at work again so my coworkers don’t see the side of me that I’m terrified to show. Because who looks at someone breaking down completely and continues to view them the same way? 

I don’t want to be babied. I don’t want to hear how “fragile” I am. I know how fragile I am; trust me, I feel it every time I take a breath. I don’t want to be considered weak-minded. Yes, at times my mind wins—the voices finally successful at knocking me back down. But that doesn’t make me weak. It makes me human.

I’m not writing this because I want to be pitied. I’m writing this because 1.) it’s helping me breathe normally, and 2.) I want to explain how much it hurts to be this unstable. I wish I were able to function normally on a daily basis. But my brain doesn’t let me. I know it’s stemmed from a lifetime of doubting myself, of continuously remembering all the shitty things people have said to and about me over the years, of wishing I didn’t fucking care what others thought of me. 

11:01p.m.
But I’m stuck with this. And if I’m not, I really hope to whatever god will hear my pleas that I find out how to cure it.

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