I’ve been holding back a panic attack for two days. The problem with learning how to suppress them: they need to happen, like little quakes that dissipate the built-up energy. No, not too much, but just enough to keep the mind moving. My mind, right now, is lurching. My body is trembling. I can barely type this. This won’t be a little quake when it finally happens. I’m afraid.
I feel like I’m screaming with my mouth closed. I’m ready to collapse, but the energy is too built up. It won’t happen. The other problem with suppressing it: once I swallow it, it eats me from the inside. My stomach’s been killing me since yesterday; last night’s sleep was unworthy of the name; and I’ve dropped in weight. I’m somewhere between 103 and 105. My boyfriend tells me, if I drop below 100, he’s going to take me to the hospital. I swear I’m eating, but I don’t know if that’s true. All ability to analyze my own actions objectively is gone. I’m folding over. Soon, I’m afraid I’ll be gone–somewhere off in my head, like when I was living with my parents. I spent years in my own head. Lately, I’ve been desiring that escapism again. I don’t want to give in, but it’s not a matter of choice. In the car, I obsess about the landscaping on the side of the highways or I watch a plane move across the sky in front of us. I’m thinking introspectively the whole time.
So much so that I don’t notice Sam has stopped talking and is now pissed. Shit. I wasn’t listening again. My apologies are starting to bore me; I can’t imagine how he must feel. I promise him I’m paying attention this time. He gives me a summary of his point. I still don’t know what he’s saying. I ask questions I hope deserve an answer. Sometimes, I get really lucky: his answer gives me a clue of what we’re talking about. From there, I can gleam from his body language and intonations what sort of reaction I should be having. If I start to gather my own thoughts on the conversation—assuming I’ve kept my focus long enough to call it a conversation—I may change my position based on my feelings. But these days, I’m afraid Sam isn’t getting many debates out of me. I’ve started to hear the chirp signaling dissatisfaction: he complains about my complaining. “It’s all you ever do lately,” he says. I’m annoying him.
No. No, I’m not. That’s my depression talking. Damn it! This thing wants me dead. I hate it. I hate my body. I hate it for doing this to me. Why can’t my chemicals just play nice? Why can’t I just be level, chill? There are people out there, aren’t there, people who don’t feel like this all the time? Aren’t there? Because if there were, they’d have a cure by now. Right? I mean, why else is no one doing anything to help me? Why can’t anyone make this stop? Why does it have to hurt so much? I want to crawl out of my skin, out of my head; I want to disappear from all this hyper-stimulation. Everything’s too loud; everyone moves too fast. Why do they keep sneaking up on me? I’m, I’m just so small. Please, please don’t hurt me. Don’t you see? I’m just a little girl. I’m just so small, you could crush me. And I’m just begging you, please stop—stop.
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