Lying on the floor with my legs bent up over the bed like I’ve fallen off it. Eyes closed. Deep breaths.
Count to 3.
1… 2… 3… exhale.
With my anxiety getting worse, for some reason, the last few days I have this feeling of a hovering panic attack. The feeling comes anywhere, anytime. So I can’t calm myself down by lying on the floor by my bed. I have to imagine myself doing so, closing my eyes, taking deep breaths.
I don’t know why I keep having these feelings, but all day for the last few days I just feel… anxious. Edgy. Like my adrenalin is up high like I’m about to start a race. But there is no race. There is no activity at all. Just my everyday life. I can’t get up and start my own race because of my responsibilities (work). So I say to myself, “go on a run when you get home from work” …but by the time I get home I just want to lie on my floor with my legs bent up over the bed like I’ve fallen off it. Eyes closed. Deep breaths. Counting to 3.
In writing the words I feel myself calming and breathing deeply, counting to 3. And for a brief moment, I’m calm. But once I stop focusing on my breathing, I feel uneasy again. On edge. Like someone is about to jump up and scare me. Anxious. Waiting for something. I don’t know what it is or where it is or how to stop this feeling. I just feel… anxious. And I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because of my PTSD and the fact that I went to the place of the trauma yesterday and knew I was supposed to go there from last week so it built up and then got worse after actually going there yesterday. God I hate that place. I try to create new memories there but the old ones still haunt me. Maybe that’s what I’m anxious about. I’m waiting for the old memories to expose themselves to the world where everyone can see them and they won’t be secret anymore. I’m afraid that people will see these old memories and the wounds they caused me will open me up into a vulnerable state, fresh for killing. And what will die will be my spirit, buried in these old memories.
But I can’t let that happen. I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want what happened to me to bury me and consume me into an inescapable darkness. Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of, too. That everyone seeing these old memories will cause them to consume me and I won’t be able to escape them ever again. That I won’t be able to breathe.
But that’s irrational. Other people need to know so they can help me. Keeping it in is what makes it consume me. Makes it define me. Suffocates me. I’m not strong enough to break free and I need others to help me. The idea that others knowing will open me up into a vulnerable state, vulnerable to the pending inescapable darkness that is the past is just my fear. Fear of what will actually happen. I am fearing the worst. When in reality, what will happen won’t be the worst. I’ve already reached out and already have hands to help dig me out of the little shadow of darkness I’m in. To give me room to lie down on the floor with my legs up closing my eyes taking deep breaths. Counting to 3. More people would just mean more help and less darkness. Less chance of falling into the inescapable darkness.
Why can’t I see that?