Tag Archives: Panic attacks

The slit of a wrist

I slide against the door, sitting on the cold floor with my knees pressed against my chest. The back of my head is leaning on the wooden door, next to the doorknob. A pounding headache is wrapping its arms around my temples. I can’t think straight. The voices in the back of my head that I’m trying to ignore are getting louder and louder. They’re buzzing through my mind like bees do when they’re making honey. But the thoughts pulsing inside my head aren’t sweet, they’re as bitter as blood.

“You’re so useless,” a soft echo screeches in my mind.
“Maybe you should just die.” Another argues. “God doesn’t make mistakes, but look He made you.” I find myself nodding, silently agreeing with those greedy voices. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am useless-

“No,” a softer voice cajoles. “Don’t say that, love.”
“Yeah. You’re amazing.”

The war I’m trying to avoid is taking place within me. I’m tired of begging to a God who has no intentions of listening to me. I’m done fighting a war that only leaves behind scars no one can see. I’m scared of embracing a future I can’t fully comprehend. I’m terrified of looking into a past I can’t understand.

My chest is bleeding, but there’s no blood. My wounds are so raw, yet they can’t be healed. I’m losing, falling, failing, and I’m okay with that. The tunnel that’s supposed to be filled with light, is drenched in darkness.

In my hand, I’m holding a blade that’s an inch long but it’s as sharp as a knife. I twirl it in between my fingers and wait for the voices in my head to subside. Tears as thick as raindrops leak through my lashes and roll down my cheeks, disappearing somewhere in my clothes. The saltiness stings my eyes, making me blink twice as fast. The blue bathroom tiles seem so blurry and the fishes on the curtains, hiding the bathtub from view, seem so alive; I’m convinced I’m underwater. Maybe that’s why I can’t breathe. My lungs are imploding, and I can’t seem to inhale or exhale.

The anxiety kicks in first and then the panic attack. Anxiety slowly slithers into the pit of my stomach as it nestles in my chest. The panic attack creeps up behind me, and I find myself begging for it to leave me alone as a helpless child does to a kidnapper. The voices in my head become sharper and the anxiety is starting to take a hold of my limbs, draining all the energy in me.

For a split second, I numb out the voices and focus on that blade in my hand. It doesn’t seem sharp anymore and for some odd reason, I want it to be sharper. I place it against my arm; the cold metal tingles my flesh as I slide it down, putting more force towards the end. Blood pours down my skin, paralyzing all those voices screeching in my brain. I watch the drops trickle down my arm as they drip on the pink tiled floor. I move the blade and jab it back into my skin, putting in more force then I did before. The sting freezes all the emotional pain, and all I feel is the ache in my arms spreading through my shoulder, palm, and fingers. It’s the kind of pain that brings joy. The one that makes you feel alive when every cell in your body is aching to die. It’s the kind of ache that sidetracks you from pain. The kind of euphoria that comes in the form of a burn. More blood drips down, forming a puddle that’s mixed with my tears.

I take the blade again and this time with rage mash it into my wrist with as much force as I can, pouring all my resentment and anger in that tiny metal. The blood rushes out like a gushing river, and I am so dazed by the red hue that all the pain just vanishes. The white wooden door, my clothes, the tiles, everything is draped in red.

Like a murder scene.

The soft voice whispers in my ear with such ease that I smile. I lie down on the cold floor, on the pool of my own blood.

It’s okay, child. It’ll all get better.

I close my eyes listening to that alluring voice as it wraps me around in its thick arms. I feel an odd darkness take a hold of me.

Photo by it’s me neosiam from Pexels

High School- An old memory.

High School.

A pain in the arse. Especially if you’re not even a student anymore. It’s hectic. It’s like you’re standing in front of the same teachers and the same consulars all over again, but the only problem is, is that you’re being scolded like you’ve cut class to hang out with those kids who do meth. But you’ve never done meth because you were too busy doing math, and that screwed you over so badly that you’ve forgotten how to add. Which is obviously worse than meth.

That’s exactly how I felt when I went back to my high school for a problem my sister had. She’s a student in that same school and the school administration have vowed not to help her because she’s related to me. It’s a blood thing, I think.

I mean, I’m not complaining about the school- okay maybe I am. Like y’all need to fix ya’ll bathrooms and y’all attitudes. Oh and let me not get started on the hundred other things that are wrong with your school.

I’m graduating from college, but the thought of high school still sends a ripple of fear down my spine. It’s like one of those haunted houses everyone is scared to go to. Heck, I’ve never been scared of haunted houses as scared as I am of high school and I’m a grown adult. Not like college is any better.

I mean, maybe sometimes the people aren’t rude, but then why do I feel like they’re about to pounce on me any moment. It’s like there’s a language barrier between the students and the administration, but ironically everyone is speaking the same language. But then why does it feel like we’re standing on two separate islands and we’re all yelling at each other from opposite ends.

My high school experience wasn’t like high school musical. Where everyone was jolly and energetic. It was mostly filled with dead zombies who were cranky and obnoxious. More than Gabriella’s there were Sharmane’s.

I was a shy girl, I mean I still am. Tell me to fetch something from the deli next door and I would cry for a month. But that’s a whole different story.

High school should be a place where teenagers develop. Where they feel safe not threatened. Where people listen because being a teenager is hard, heck being alive is hard. But it should be a safe haven, not a war zone. A place filled with flowers and all those other soft and mushy things.

But no, for me high school was a dungeon, filled with creepy demons waiting to prey on me. Every time I would see the school building, my heart would claw in my throat. It was like I was in a horror movie and the school building wanted to see me die. Like that movie where the house comes to life, except the school was dead and so was everyone in it.

Run.

That was the only thing that I wanted to do. Run far away from the building and never see it ever again, but it was close to my house and I saw it every effen day.

Maybe that’s why kids cut school. Because instead of teaching students about survival they are taught about how beautiful the quadratic equation is. I mean I’m not saying that the quadratic equation isn’t important, I might need it when I’m doing my taxes. But, students should be taught how to deal with their problems not thrash more problems onto them. SAT, Honors, AP classes, College, Career; it’s all overwhelming.

The only thing I learned in high school is that life sucks, and Hitler has a weird ass mustache. Oh, and how the mitochondrion is the powerhouse of the cell. Boyles Law? PV=nRt. Let’s not forget about plants. It is very crucial to learn how conifers reproduce because we’re all being raped by plants.

Maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe I’m being clouded by my hatred of my high school years. But it was hard, not having friends, I mean not like I still do. I’m a very lonely person by the way.

But it required more energy to try to stay positive than to actually study. The effort to care would drain all the energy I had in me.

It’s like this feeling that you’re dumb because unlike all the other students you don’t have special talents. They have all these AP classes and they’re into sports and here you are wondering why your pants don’t have pockets. The system is rigged. I demand more pockets.

But to all those high school-ers or even middle-school-ers who are going through this, I wish the odds in your favor, heck I wish all the numbers in your favor. It’s complicated and no one understands. I know.

Just keep pushing on and keep trying. Your life does not end here. Go to teachers who care. Trust me there are a few. Yes, you have no idea where your future is leading you. Trust me, even I don’t know and I’m graduating from college. But have faith in yourself, because you’re epic. If you were born different, then why fit in.

You’re an outcast and you should be grateful. You did not fight through a million other sperms to be like everyone else. You were born different so be happy. Give your best my growing little pumpkins and soon you will turn into pie.

I’m joking.
No one likes pumpkin pie.
Be fried chicken instead.
Everyone loves fried chicken.

But don’t give up. Keep trying and keep a positive attitude. I promise you will make it through. Yes! Your insides are churning, and Miss D. doesn’t like you, but this isn’t a chapter in your life, it’s just a mere sentence. Don’t rip up your book just because you didn’t like one word.

You’ll make it through, I promise
Because I did too.

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I am a Hero

I am a hero.
A vigilante.

I tell this to myself every time I stand in front of the mirror. I can see my invisible cape and the skin colored mask covering my face.

I am strong.
I tell this to myself every time I find my thoughts slipping away into an empty abyss.

No!
You’re nothing.
You’re a lethargic weakling.
A mediocre.
You aren’t worth anything.

That’s what the villain in me says. He’s evil and he has this way with words that I find myself attracted to him even more. It’s easier being pessimistic, but it’s not worth it. The evil villain in me isn’t like the Joker in Batman or the weird lizard in Spider-Man or even the cyborgs in Avengers. My villain looks exactly like me and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between the vigilante and the villain. The villain sometimes gets stronger and I find myself surrounded by monsters who want to tear me apart. I can’t fight those monsters because they’re in my head and I can’t see them through the mirror. No one can. Those monsters scream at me. Yell at me, and I can’t explain this to anyone without sounding like a monster myself. How do I fight what doesn’t exist? How do I defend myself with the same sword that wants to stab me?

Unlike Superman and Wonder woman I don’t have superpowers. Like Batman I don’t have money, like Black-widow I don’t have slick moves. Like Daredevil, I don’t have a guru who can teach me the art of saving an entire city because right now I am incapable of saving myself.

I’m just plain ordinary.
I’m a vigilante in my own unique way.

I sometimes have to fight the toughest wars because the bloodiest battles take place within me. I’m like the Yin and Yang, but I’m not black nor am I white. I am grey.

The hero in me doesn’t always win. Sometimes I’m engulfed by the villain. He has this seductive tone that lures me in and I lose all sense of right and wrong. He has the ability to make me tear my insides and I find myself listening to him. I destroy myself in such a beautiful way that the vigilante in me gets confused. The vigilante willingly surrenders, and I end up slicing my own throat.

What’s the point of anything?
You’re a failure.
Just stop wasting people’s time.

Sometimes I yell at the villain and we fight, and sometimes I give in to his threats and lock myself up in that tiny compartment in my brain.

Either way, I always come back wounded, but no one believes me because I have no scars to show or no blood to wipe away. I just have tales to tell and stories to share.

But the greatest victory, I guess, is to keep on fighting. To keep on trying. We all have monsters living in us, but so do we have heroes.

Sometimes these heroes don’t save the world because they’re too busy saving the chaos going on inside of us, and maybe that’s okay.

We all have that piece in us that wants to be Superman or Wonder Woman, but why do we fail to realize that we are our own superheroes. We are our own vigilantes. Making it through another day when you have nothing to look forward to is progress on its own. Getting out of bed, forcing a smile, helping someone in need, even when you yourself are in desperate need of help, is a form of victory. This is what heroes do.

They keep trying.
They keep pushing.
They keep fighting.
And they don’t give up.
They never give up.

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