Everyone is different. This is what a Panic Attack is like for me.
Hiding. Seems easy enough. Avoiding. Running.
Every successful person speaks of pushing through these. I don’t. At least not at the current moment. How do I write when I’m delivering shit? I don’t want it spread around. Shit is hard to clean up. So I sit with it. Absorb it. Deserve it.
Where does that come from? I don’t logically think I deserve it. But my shoulders welcome the cycle of weight. I say cycle because I’ve been here before. Again and again. The key is remembering that it doesn’t last forever. Fuck the key when you’re here though. Fuck everything.
Anxiety is heavy. Heavy is hard. Heavy is hard today.
Where do I take it? I don’t want to meditate. There is too much to feel. So I continue to feel. Deeper until it’s breaking me. Over the years I’ve learned to at least try to separate this gift from what is actually me. Maybe it’s the world trying to convince me that it’s a disorder. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s my increase in cookie consumption this week. No matter. The constriction around my organs doesn’t care where it comes from.
Time to Break Wind.
I turn on my music and start to flow. Start with basics. I can’t think past the unscrupulous tension in my chest.
Disorder, my ass.