My heartbeat seems to be taking shorter beats, closer together. I’m freezing, it’s so cold in here. I’m sweating, it’s so stuffy in here. There’s a tunnel in my throat and it’s collapsing. My breath struggles to make it past the boulders in my throat.
My stomach seizes so tight I almost believe it is shriveling to nothing. I cannot stop trembling. I swear my heart is about to leap out of my throat and I’ll be gone from this world. I cannot see clearly for the tears are streams and I’m drowning.
I cannot seem to make myself any smaller. It isn’t dark enough in here. I pile on the jackets and the blankets. I cannot sit still. I need to go. I need to move. I get dressed. I pace. I am thinking so fast I cannot grasp reality.
I sit down and try to count my breaths. I can’t seem to finish one breath before another is demanding it’s turn. Where am I?
Panic. It lingers close by now. I’ve had 3 panic attacks in two weeks. The next day, I can smell the fear. I can feel the trepidation towards everything. I don’t want it. I hate it. I don’t fully understand it.
I’ve had ghosts and whispers of memories come back to me over the last few months. I feel so desperate to put all the pieces together and find the truth in the picture of my past.
Is this denial? Is this shame? Is this fear?
Do I really want clarity? I feel as if Pandora’s box is open and there is no going back. I must find clarity.
Through eight months of therapy I have found that in my moments of ‘fight or flight’ adrenaline rushes, I flight. I shut down. Completely. And when the danger has passed, I cannot recall the details. I can only offer a generic summary of the event.
I don’t feel safe, emotionally. Logically, I am safe in the present.
Trauma is a bitch. I am attempting to relinquish the control past trauma has on me.
It seems a tremendous mountain to climb. It seems a slow and painful process.
There are so many layers. They all feel so deep. It seems impossible.
It all feels like I’m in two places at once. Emotionally, I’m reacting and responding as if I were a young child again, helpless and afraid. Yet I am functioning daily, attempting to ignore the wounds of days’ past, pretending like I’ve got my shit together.
I’ve got to keep digging. I’ve got to figure this out. I have learned that placing painful, traumatic things in a box and pretending like it doesn’t exist, is temporary, like a band-aid.
The band-aid I placed on myself long ago is raggedy and useless to me now.
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