Terror

As I write this, my hands shake with the anxiety that plagues my every moment. The monsters that are my thoughts hide within plain sight, within the rocking of my torso and the stuttering of my breath. You see, the medications have put an end to the urge to harm myself, and they mute the rushing in my ears when people talk too loud, but the panic lingers. The never-ending fear of anything and everything; the overbearing, too-fast thumping of my heart in my chest plays out a beat that my illness dances too, and I do not want to dance along.

I fight it day and night, because the memories come quick and the nightmares come quicker. Because I do not want to be terrified of making someone angry, and do you know what it feels like to be scared of your own lover just because they got excited and moved a little too fast? My loved ones would never harm me, but my brain seems late to get the memo and the fact that I flinch when my nephew first starts crying makes me want to weep myself. And when the panic hits all at once, like a boulder to my chest because it feels constricted and so does my head, the tears come fast and the breathing stops altogether. It is called an attack because I am crushed under the blows that my disorder lands onto my mind, and it short circuits — there is no thought, only terror.

I need you to understand that the reason I sleep for 2 hours after and still wake up shaking is because it never really goes away. Because diseases of the mind wax and wane like the moon in the night sky but they are always there, waiting. Because Panic Disorder and PTSD are an ugly shadow that wraps around my body in a choke hold and I battle it every day and it will never give up the fight but neither will I, because I want to be able to stop jumping when I hear a door slam, to stop fearing the moment someone will leave. I want to be the brave little girl I once was, but that person left and she is never coming back. I can still fight to be better though, and I’m trying, god I’m trying. Climbing the stairway to mental health is exhausting but it’s worth it — and so am I.

I am worth it.

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Trying to give a voice to those with invisible disabilities and mental illness, and show others they are not alone. You can support me at ko-fi.com/marswrites

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Mars Sisco

Mars Sisco

Trying to give a voice to those with invisible disabilities and mental illness, and show others they are not alone. You can support me at ko-fi.com/marswrites

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