Panic

I feel on edge but in control. My dance class is flying by but I have a devil on my shoulder trying to pull me down. Down to a lower level only my sister has seen. The level I’m at when I’m alone sobbing in my car, or shaking motionlessly in my room. Shit. It’s coming again.

Never before have I shown ‘weakness’ to the outside world. In fact I am portrayed as that composed yet slightly ditzy girl. No one knows when I’m sad or when I’m about to break down, yet I do.

I can feel it, but I’m trapped. Trapped in my own fictional reality, my fake life. The person whom I want people to see to avoid the truth. I’m lonely and isolated in my body. It does things I do not wish. The past haunts it; makes my body rattle in rage. So much for being in control of my life.

Get out. GET OUT! I’m screaming at myself to escape this situation. Hysteria is building up inside me whilst nausea fills my stomach in waves. ‘For god’s sake’ my rationality is saying.

I’m now trying to ride it out in the outside breeze.

5 minutes…

10 minutes…

30 minutes…

What on earth is my body doing to me?

Now huddled in a ball on the ground things are calming. My shaking is subsiding and breath steadying. I still can’t feel my arms or face. A dull tingling sensation is all that links me with reality.

A stampede of people gush through the door as once more I’m paralyzed and screaming. What for? I cannot say. This time it’s worse. People coming up to me, wondering what the hell I’m doing. Only know they realise I’ve been missing for a good part of an hour.

My hands have now been paralyzed into a cramped first. I thought this was meant to be a ‘fight or flight’ reaction. I don’t seem to be doing much. Shaking – yes, crying – yes, looking crazy – yes. Why couldn’t my body have chosen to fly? Fly out of this situation and into a new one. Instead everything is stuck inside of me. Embarrassment, panic, sadness, shame; my body is full of it. GET ME OUT!!

I’m now only petrified of humiliating myself again and I’m ridden with guilt for my double standards. I see others having panic attacks and only see the strength they have to get through them. I’m still ashamed. I’m ashamed of people stereotyping me, thinking I’m incapable, and forcing me to be that vulnerable deer in the headlights. I won’t be that deer, but what else can I do?

Why didn’t I start earlier?

This is a question I often hear myself say. It feels as if i’m genetically hardwired to challenge my future self as much as possible. Not a good challenge. One which nearly breaks me, skrews with my head, and makes me doubt and question myself until i feel nothing. Numb. I’m a silhouette in the background; a shadow in the dark. But is this a fantasy or reality? More than ever now i just want to be that shadow or silhouette, i want to be in the background. I want to be invisible.

Time will tick by. It will skip minutes, hours and even days until the penny finally drops. I’ve run out of this ‘indefinite continued progress of existence’. I can’t see progress. I hope for it. I hope that some how i can absorb every book and retain every line. After all i just need to know the answers, how hard can that be?

It’s as if I actually have belief in myself. Hope, optimism and plane idiocy are three words which come to mind. My days feel long and care free. But the nights are longer and strenuous. No sleep. No peace of mind. Fear.

Why do i do this to myself?

Existential crisis

I find mental health is such an open and ugly word to use. Trapped in your mind and a body you do not care for. Why is it that help involves everyone? I’m embarrassed. I feel like shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What an awful word to use yet the only one satisfactory enough to describe my feelings. But why do I have to describe? Bottling up apparently makes things worse, trying to figure it out myself takes too long and leads to too much pain. Why is going public the only way? I hate it.

Why do I have to wind through so many channels to get what I want…what I need? I feel like an actress. I’m fighting for people to believe me. Why won’t they believe me? I have to fit a stereotype. A stereotype that fits a diagnosis. Well what if these diagnoses’ are wrong, what if they are just traits or a type of personality not a condition which has to be defined? All I can say to that is “well at least everyone else can be fucked over by that one”. I have to be physically ill and showing symptoms to get anywhere with systems. I thought mental illness was just in your head. I must be wrong as to everyone else you have to see it. Why haven’t they learnt? The thousands of suicides and constant comments ‘I wish I knew’… It’s within us. Our minds, within our bodies. Not the exterior. Yes I have scars. Yes I may not always appear rational, calm, composed… Normal? Is that a word even able to be associated with the human race?

Constant campaigns for change and acceptance but do I ever see anything happen. I don’t believe so. These politicians pledging to improve mental health but all I see is a huge fucking barrier… my body. How can others ever be able to help when all that I am is trapped. Do I even matter in this world or am I just another prop so that the world can just keep on ticking by.

Everyone sees the point in life. I really don’t. Maybe my existence doesn’t have a purpose … the enjoyment? That makes me laugh; I can’t see any. Trivial things hurt. Family hurts you, friends hurt you, stability hurts you as in the end its all swallows you up. I feel like I’m drowning in a black hole. Getting a glimpse of the beauty of the stars in the night sky before their existence is snatched before you in an instance. All they are is a memory. SO far away that you cannot even see them whilst they’re ‘alive’ and glowing. I find a morbid sense of security in that. Maybe I enjoy people finally seeing some unknown beauty in me once I’m gone. Like the stars. Maybe I’ll be this beautiful elegant dancer, caring, loving and friendly daughter who tried to be there for everyone and everything. But that’s when I’m gone. Not now. Know-one ever seems to appreciate one another whilst they’re living. As soon as they’re no more everyone sees this new light shine on them as if suddenly they’re death is that light in the darkness, the hope in a storm. But what use is that to the living. I will never be able to hear those words. The ones of people I love. I am full of hate and unable to forgive. Anger eats away at my sole and the trust I used to have fades because of what?… one person? One person is able to ruin a life and no matter how much I try and deny it and don’t want it to be true, how can I ignore it? Mum. That word means nothing to me anymore. You are simply an unidentified number in my phone. I wish that was true in my head; I can’t get you out of my head. You’ve been there for 19 years and I feel sick from this roller-coaster. I can’t stay on anymore, crashing to my end like the Smiler. I love that irony. I don’t think anyone was smiling when that came to the end. It’s like life. Smile and all the questions go away. ‘Smile and wave boys, smile and wave’. It annoys me how know-one can see behind a faked exterior. See the pain within and the struggle it take to smile. Maybe it’s because know-one wants to. They don’t want the problem.

Well… That problem is me.