On nights like this I can see a physical imprint my hands leave on everything I touch- a waxy panic residue, a flaky shaky energy that cascades off of every part of me in a seemingly endless supply. I can trace my pacing across the floor and my sporadic taps and twitches on doors, walls and my person.
I am aware of a more or less calm exterior despite wanting to tear my hair out. Despite wanting to cut my own flesh and rip my burning stomach out. Despite doubting my sanity and thinking in circles and losing the ability to move my eyes or lungs. Ow my sternum, my ears, my breasts, my bowels, my ribs and entrails and appetite and legs. My ass is twitching. I want to fight someone I want to choke to death. I am choking to death.
I lose my taste for life.
And I hate myself. I hate myself with a passion. I hate myself as though there's some nobility in it; as though self hatred is a redeeming quality. I hate myself in lieu of being humble. I examine my ills and feel revulsion.
I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm Going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going Going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going.
The world is out to get me.
My mother has offered to treat me with Reiki, but there is no cure for the common panic attack.
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