From the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt to panic attack soother.

“10.” He says it forcefully and with a strength I don't have. His voice burns through the scenes in my brain and I clench it between my trembling fists. 

“10.” He says it again because I still haven't managed to answer. I try desperately but the word gets caught in my throat. It hiccups and stumbles, unable to fall from my lips. 

He realizes it's impossible; tears coat my cheeks so thick they're visible through the streams of water burning my face. My hands are pressed against the shower wall, fingertips digging into the plastic desperately. My body shakes. 

He reaches in and grips my arm. Water splashes against him and careens to the floor. I want to speak. I want to curl into his chest to hide from the memories assaulting my brain. They're splashing against my eyelids like acid and seeping into my soul. It's so painful I can't breathe. I can't move. 

“10.” He's louder this time and his fingers dig into me. Force and support drips from his lips and spills onto my bare skin. Instead of comforting me it causes sobs to finally break from my mouth; they're so loud I'm embarrassed. 

I watch myself sob and hiccup; tears stream down my face and fingernails claw their own palms. I watch him wrap his arms around me in an effort to draw me out, his clothed legs getting splashed with water and soap I'd tried half-heartedly to apply. I watch my body tremble and shake; water rushes from my body with the force. 

Please. Please just say 9. I know you can say 9. 9! I'm screaming at myself. I claw at the panic in my brain and slash through it with determination but still I can't force the words from my lips. Fists pounds uselessly against the barrier crafted inside my head; trapped by memories and pain so strong it rips my soul apart. 

9! 9! I'm screaming and pounding so loudly my throat hurts. But, I'm sobbing and unable to choke the sound from my strangled throat; instead I tremble and he holds me, shaking on his knees next to the shower.

“10.” He tries again, forceful but weary. He's so tired and so scared. It worms through the panic gripping me and my breathing shutters. I manage to whisper, “9” before hyperventilating into the shower spray and crumbling into pieces of memories. 

“That's good, that's so good. 8.” He rubs my back with one hand and the other has a firm grip on my forearm. I'm trying desperately to focus on his hands gripping my body but I can't. 

Instead his hands are on me and I can't breathe again. I scrub at my body, fingernails raking over skin as I shake. My mind shatters and I'm stuck between him and the cold ground while he pounds into me and I silently cry. Take it away, I just want to take it away. I would skin myself with my own fingers if it would remove the imprint of him on me.

“8. Please Kitty, you can do it.” His consistent voice finally breaks through. I stop needlessly scrubbing 12 year old memories from my body and still. “That's it. 8.” 

“7.” It squeaks from my throat barely audible but he smiles so bright and big I can feel it on me. I know he heard me. I know he's proud. I wish I could be proud too. 

Tears scald my cheeks. Shame slips from the corners of my eyes and rolls over my cheeks; it's everywhere. It lives in my cells and invades me when I'm unprepared to fight back. His voice slices through it and I focus on him again- just him. 

“6.”

I breathe deeply and it catches in my throat but I force it out, shuttering the air from my lips. “5.” 

For a moment I'm gone again and my heart shatters in my chest; it explodes into pieces that stick to bone and chain. I'm stuck. Trapped. Held in place, unable to move or run away, tied with bonds groomed into me- “FOUR.” 

The volume in his voice said I'd been gone for too long. The desperate clutch of his fingers in my skin, embedded and imprinted over top of the memories assaulting me, spoke volumes. I sink into the smell of him and the feel of him on my body, unable to escape any other way. “3.” 

“Good. You're so strong. 2.” His hand circles my back, herculean and sure against my timidity. He presses his face into my neck and I feel him breathing against me, murmuring words of encouragement into my ear. 

I roll around in them- soak them into my soul and preen against the bonds of my shame. He doesn't think it's my fault. He doesn't care. His lips brush across my ear and I shiver. “1.” 

He laughs, joyous and relieved, wrapping his arms around me under the spray. My sobs have devolved into hiccups that catch but stretch as he envelopes me in this moment and not my memories. I can finally breathe. My chest isn't cracked open and spilling my insides anymore; it's been mended with patchy glue.

“You made it through those 10 seconds, you did it. Now let's get through another 10.”

My New Life

Pain bursts through my head before I've even fully woken up or formed a thought. It blossoms in the back of my head and curls around the sides to rest at my temples and pulse; a dull tattoo across my skull. I wince slightly, careful not to jar myself anymore than I have to for fear of dislocating something.The beat against my eyes feels like fists and bruised eye sockets-  I don't want to open my eyes. 

"Curse you Chiari..." I mumble while digging my fingers into my temples.

I crack open my eyes and thank God for Steven because he'd covered the windows in blankets and remembered to shut my bedroom door after waking which meant it was nearly pitch black in the room. I heave in a breath and feel my stomach bulge- incisional hernia poking out because I'd spent the last hour on my right side. Luckily my liver wasn't swollen anymore and shifting my ribs around so I could actually take a full breath.

Cracks break out across my ribs, through my back, and across my collarbone from the deepness of my breath. I curse myself for the stupidity as spasms start in my ribs. They're trying to sublux. I force my muscles to lock in position and hold my ribs in even as they're fighting against me painfully. Eventually the spasm passes and I can relax into the firm mattress underneath my back. I breath more shallow this time.

"You can do it. Just sit up." I chant it inside my head a few times trying to build up the courage to sit.

Courage to sit. I roll my eyes under their closed lids and ball my fingers into fists, but that backfires because my ring finger has slipped out of place. It grinds against itself and I clench my teeth in anger frustrated with my useless body. I remember when courage was more than overcoming terror of my own body.

"Screw you EDS."

I have to force myself not to scream. It would just hurt my torn throat anyway and decimate my head. Chronic illness has completely taken over my life and transformed me into this monster I don't know. No longer can I urge myself past every physical ailment or emotional disturbance. I can't even make a fist without dislocations or pain and I certainly can't do any of things I used to be capable of. A tear slips out of the corner of my eye and burns down my cheek like acid.

Weak. I just feel weak. I reach up to brush the moisture away and my shoulder clicks out painfully; joint slipping. I cringe and stop. I have to use my other hand to physically manevour it around the joint and back into place before I can complete the motion. I used to be able to take notes for hours and climb jungle gyms with my daughter yet lifting my arm is nearly impossible now. The thought enrages me enough that I sit up.

When I press my hands into the bed my wrist slips. My shoulder pops back out and pain bursts across my collarbone. My ring finger knocks against itself once more and my head pounds with such intensity I'm not sure if the black I'm seeing is the dark room or spots swimming across my eyes. Pain shoots down my spine and expands across my back like players on a football field fanning over the grass. I shake my head ruefully, frustrated beyond any accurate measurement,more so when parts of my neck pop and crinkle. I used to walk miles uphill with pounds of books and child but sitting is enough to wear me out today.

I sit on the edge of the bed taking stock. Everything that slipped out is back in painfully throbbing. My head is swimming in fog so thick it might as well be tangible and dripping from my body I'm so encumbered. It's hard to think. I try to force my brain to focus on anything but thoughts slip through the patches of fog and disappear. A 3.9 GPA English degree but I can't finish a sentence inside my head without repeating it 20 times and following the thread of words over and over again trying to find the place I got lost. I give up.

"You. Can. Do. It." You. Can. Do. It. Stand up. Just try standing up? I can manage to try.

I shift my weight to my thighs and the extra pressure pushes my hip out just slightly. I catch it time so I shift to the left and put less weight on it so it slides back in without fully dislocating. I take a deep but not too deep breath and push to my feet before I can overthink it. My knee catches and then hyper-extends until it buckles. I catch myself on the book shelf handily located directly beside my bed and knock my elbow out on impact. I roll my eyes and laugh angrily. Better than crying again right? Definitely better.

Once my knee is stable and my hips are locked into place with extra muscle and thought I try walking. My head is still swimming and dizzy so I keep holding the bookshelf. My ankle slips out and I stumble, "thank you Jesus for making me hold this shelf," before righting myself and continuing. It's like it disappeared for a second and took my foot along with it.

My bladder made walking a necessity or I might have hid in bed all day. That thought sends guilt and shame coursing through every vein and blood vessel in my body. It's almost painful in it's intensity. Every waking moment was Lindzy. Every sleeping moment. I went to college. I mommed. I worked. I did everything, all the time, alone. But now I would stay in bed unable to move without pain or consequences, all day; everyday. My hip slips again and now that pain mingles with the shame. They cause my throat to burn and tears to prick my eyes.

Suddenly my stomach clenches. Pain erupts and acid churns up my throat. It bubbles in the back like a jacuzzi and stings the cuts in my throat. It spills into my mouth, shooting from my esophagus. It burns my lips when I try to hold it inside; three steps from the toilet. Cramping in my stomach causes me to double over on step one and my ankle disappears on step two. I sink to my knees and feel them pop out, tendons sliding and joints slipping as I bend too far too quick trying to reach the bowl before acid runs from my mouth. I retch so hard my stomach twists in knots and blood colors the toilet in swirls of red and pink. Tears seep from my eyes and saliva drips from my lips to drop in the water below sending ripples through the galaxy of my stomach acid.

I hear my phone ring in the distance and a laugh sends me into a new nausea spiral. Anxiety coats my skin like mist at the missed call. Prior to getting sick I couldn't stand to let a call or text go unanswered for more than a second. I was lucky to respond within hours at this point in my life. Tears slip down my cheeks and I stare listlessly at the floor, unable to get up. My knees have locked into place and the puking knocked something in my chest out. Pain and numbness spread through the middle of my chest and into my collarbone. It seeps into my shoulders before finally disappearing. I hate the isolation most. My phone was only a few feet away but I physically could not manage the steps.

I force myself to straighten my legs, relaxing the muscles so they can slip back into place correctly and painfully. I ache and throb but they finally steady enough to stand as long as I hold myself on the counter. I lean against it and rinse my mouth quickly.

Mouthwash, a wet wipe, and hand sanitizer. The bare minimum. I glance at the mirror and want to weep again at the sight. My hair is tangled and matted because brushing during a migraine episode is impossible. My skin is splotchy and red. Broken blood vessels color my cheeks like lightening streaking through a Van Gogh night. My eyes are bloodshot and my right jaw is visibly swollen from the frequent dislocations.

I sigh heavily and build my courage to leave the room. I wish I could be the person I used to be but that's impossible now. I can't be that friend, mom, or wife that I desire to be anymore. The person I used to be imposes over the image in the mirror; a cruel juxtaposition of past and reality. I want to smash it to pieces if it means avoiding the guilt associated with my deteriorating health but I swallow the rage even though it scrapes and gets stuck on the way down my throat.

Now, my courage has to have a new face. The monsters inside me desperately trying to hold me back will not win. Tomorrow is a new day, I remind myself. My fingertips curl around the edge of the countertop and the first joints of 3 fingers slip out. A laugh escapes my lips and I slowly shake my head. "No one said life would be easy."

Online

I rarely complain about my life on social media. In private groups; definitely, to personal friends; abso-fucking-lutely, but never in public because, truthfully, it's just not your business - it's mine.

Unfortunately that leads to the misconception that everyone (but you) has the perfect life. They have that rose coloured, greener grass, picket fence thing going on that we're conditioned to envy.

It also means no one is compassionate - at least in person. Our life is perfect, what right do we have to look less than perfect or act like anything other than the perfected Facebook picture that we are?

So I'm going to start to by saying that I rarely wear pants, I hate myself 97% of the time regardless of my body positive posts (thus the reason they exist in such abundance) and in the last year my health has deteriorated so much that I hardly leave my house.

Now that that's out of the way, let me be more clear::

I am legally disabled. A judge and multiple doctors, therapists, and lawyers all consider my health problems to be so bad that I can not work. At least 10 days a month I can not even leave my bedroom except to use the bathroom and some of those days are me crawling on the floor or Steven holding me up so I don't pass out.

Yesterday I puked a few times, thought I was well enough to help Mathew open his bubbles, and then proceeded to puke on my phone, the bubbles, me, him, the sink, and the floor.

People-ing is really fucking hard when you can't think enough to form sentences but need to pretend like everything is perfect.

I have an autistic son. He's completely amazing and I love him with every part of me: but he is hard work. He has ABA therapy, speech, a special needs preschool, and regular early intervention appointments.

Do you understand how hard that is to keep track of? I'm so tired of having to apologize for missing appointments or forgetting things I need to bring.

Half of my diagnosis' and meds give me such a foggy brain I barely keep track of what I'm saying when I say it.

My middle daughter is currently in the process of an autism diagnosis as well. I'm a lot of ways she's more difficult than my "severely ASD" son is and seems to have the more "traditional" symptoms like aversion to crowds and noises.

Now she's also starting speech therapy, occupational therapy, and pre-school.

I also had to make the decision to start her on meds for sleep. Do you know how hard that is? To decide to medicate your child because you're tired? But she was staying up until 3 am, waking at 7, and then staying up until 4am the NEXT DAY. Regularly.

More recently she, and my oldest,  have been working on a diagnosis for Elhers Danlos; hypermobility: a connective tissue disorder causing faulty collegan. It affects the entire body and causes dislocations and pain on a frequent (daily) basis.

Unfortunately they got that from me.

To reiterate, that's a literal fuck ton of appointments to keep track of and attend.

When I come stumbling in with all 4 kids looking pristine, my hair curling in a million directions and dark bags that live under my eyes now, it's literally taking every bit of strength and willpower that I have.

When I forget what the doctor's name is, and I'm aware how frustrating and hard that can be for you because I've worked as a receptionist before, please don't judge me. Don't roll your eyes and assume I'm a waste of lazy space; please.

Understand that Joey has multiple doctors and therapists, Lindzy has a few more, so does Reyna, and I have double that so remembering every tiny detail every single time is really hard.

Please don't tease me and treat me badly because you think I'm not trying hard enough; I assure you I am. I have lists of every person we see. I set reminders on my phone. I put them on the calendar. I send messages to myself with the information. I put sticky notes on my bathroom mirror like an a Alzheimer's patient and I still manage to forget things two seconds later.

I forget sentences as I say them. I forget what words mean and I forgot normal everyday words constantly in the middle of a conversation.

I am a writer, straight through to my soul; do you know how that feels? How agonizing and hopeless it feels to lose one of the most important things in your world?

Stumbling through my words and giving you the wrong birthday gives me more pain than it does you, I promise.

Please just keep in mind that people aren't what we see online. We have lives and problems and minds that exist beyond the limited scope of appearance. We are all just trying our absolute best.

Please understand from a different perspective than your own because we do we can't truly love and accept.

He has Autism; not a discipline problem.

This is Joseph. Most of you know him from Facebook since I'm mildly (moderately) addicted and take photographs like most people take candy and some of you have had the awesome opportunity to meet him in person.

Even fewer know that he's autistic.

Joseph was a thousand percent born this way. From day one I suspected autism because genetics are a bitch and he was different than Mathew, Reyna, and Lindzy. I don't say that in a negative way; merely that they had certain traits and milestones but he never did.

I used to try desperately to calm him down; cuddling and rocking him, singing over and over but no matter what I did he just wanted to be alone. He wouldn't eat unless he was in his bed with a bottle propped up - I wasn't even allowed to hold it most times.

Breast-feeding was a hassle, obviously, since he didn't want held while eating. He'd fuss and unlatch so many times my nipples were cracked until finally I gave in and let him be alone. And, while he was alone he needed a particular set of toys in a particular order or he'd refuse to sleep.

He rarely acknowledges his name or instructions and contrary to popular belief it's not because he's a "terrible" child and it definitely isn't because I'm a terrible mom.

He just doesn't hear us. His hearing isn't the problem - he has aced that test - but we don't exist sometimes. If you think it's annoying to hear me try and correct him multiple times then put yourself here.

It's not fun for us either.

He wanders everywhere constantly, there is little to no reason behind it. Short of holding him in place while he kicks and punches and screams in my face there isn't a lot to be done. We hover because he isn't aware of danger and I won't let him hurt himself during his wandering.

I will say this again: he isn't being bad.

When you see him melting down in public: he isn't being bad, his brain is literally wired differently than yours.

Those meltdowns can last an hour or more and on a fairly regular basis last at least 30 minutes.

A meltdown is completely different than a child throwing a fit. If you're not aware of the difference then you have no business judging us. "Being tough" does nothing. Trying to hold him sends him even further into a spiraling meltdown. He doesn't even acknowledge me when I give him exactly what he wanted because it's not about things.

His brain gets overwhelmed.  Do you have any idea how hard that must be for HIM?

 It's overwhelming for him and he reacts accordingly.

It is IMPOSSIBLE to "beat" the autism out of someone because it is a neurological disorder. You can't beat someone's brain into submission.

Yes, it hurts my heart when he doesn't respond like my other kids do. It hurts when he doesn't interact with me. It hurts when he ignores other kids because they're just not on his radar.

Of course it hurts when he barely looks me in the eye and he doesn't even know I exist 50 percent of the time.

But what doesn't hurt is how fucking amazing he is.

He's probably the most intelligent child I've had the opportunity to be around. His brain see things differently so most difficult things are extremely easy for him. He will track down a laundry basket from upstairs, then bring it downstairs so he can use it to climb onto the freezer and into the kitchen to get himself whatever he needs.

Who else has that kind of determination and ingenuity at two?

He allows me to find complete joy in the most mundane of things because everything is absolute joy. He doesn't half in and half out, he one thousand percent throws himself into the feeling and has the most beautiful genuine happiness I've ever witnessed.

His hugs are bone crushing.

And, he cuddles like a second skin; smooshed into my chest, head under my chin, and my arm wrapped around his belly like a seatbelt.

I wouldn't change him for the world. 

You Don't See Me

You don't see me, not really. You see the mask I've carefully crafted over years of imperfect practice.

You see me on Facebook; all the pictures I bombard you with. You see me picking out pumpkins and climbing toys at the park but you don't see me crying in the bath, water so hot it burns my skin, trying to stop the ache because every joint in my body feels like they've been in a head on collision with a semi; the surrounding tissue and ligaments stretched until broken.

You see my positive posts and the inspirational bullshit I try to flood my overactive brain with. You don't see the blood and ruined skin of my fingernails because I compulsively pick them. You don't see me standing in front of the mirror twisting into a human pretzel trying to find an angle I can actually like. You don't see me scrubbing layers of dry skin from my face and hands or slathering myself in extra strength lotion so my skin doesn't split open and bleed.

You don't see me researching different ring braces and crying over the prices, cursing disability because I can't afford to help my joints stay in place.

I'm too poor to be disabled.

You don't see me unable to hold a spoon because my fingers aren't working; they just stop. Every nerve and muscle in them suddenly becomes jelly that's dripping in the sun. Droopy. Not there.

You don't see me unable to sleep::

Is the door locked? All 3? Did we leave the heater on? Or the stove.. oven? Is the fridge working? What if the freezer stops working? Will everything go bad? We can't afford for everything to go bad.

You don't see me collecting pillows like a childhood obsession because I can't sleep without them. I have to stack them perfectly underneath my joints so I don't hyperextend in my sleep or ache too much to close my eyes without wishing for death.

So I don't dislocate something rolling over.

You don't see me spending nights in the ER; my pain finally too much to control. I try desperately to hide it from my kids with lies and laughter.

You don't see me unable to pick up my kids because it stretches and pops my shoulders and elbows out. It's excruciatingly difficult to keep a child from falling when your arm doesn't work for a moment.

You don't see me questioning myself until I'm crying too hard to breath. Life with an invisible illness means constantly being worried because, "it's not real" and "you're not trying hard enough." Living with a lifelong prison sentence inside a barely functioning body can be just as devastating as a fatal diagnosis.

But no one believes that.

You don't see me debating whether or not I can physically afford to shower; weighing how long it's been against the pain invading every cell of me. Most people get 15 spoons but I'm lucky to have 7 and that includes just getting out of bed in the morning. Is it worth it?

You don't see the brain fog. The repeat calender entries and notes and reminders that I need but still end up forgetting.

You don't see me with Steven - him trying to help hold my body together with tape and prayer.

You don't see me frustrated because my back is so flexible and curved that it's permenently damaged itself.

You don't see me.

You don't see.

My Scariest Nightmares

**If you don't talk to me I'll have you locked in a psych ward.**

The words rattle around the inside of my skull like weights; slapping me, breaking me, with every turn.I'm visibly shaking so my husband grabs my fingers with his and squeezes. I look up through my lashes because lifting my head would hurt and try to manage a smile.

**You have to talk now. You don't have a choice.**

I shut my eyes so tight it hurts; the pain reverberating across my eye sockets and into my temples. A stupid moan slips from between my clenched teeth and I force myself to relax enough to open my eyes and untangle my tense muscles from each other. If I'm too loud someone will hear and I couldn't bare that.

I kept expecting them to call my name because mentally unstable patients usually get taken back pretty quickly.

But they don't.

I bounce my legs because the anxiety has to go somewhere. My fingers tremble around my phone, I can't stop it, and it falls to the floor. I bite back a sob; I clench my teeth around it and grind it into submission before it runs down my face. 

"Roze Tronsen?"

I jerk, startled. Steven pulls me to my feet keeping an arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders.

"I'm not running.." I mumble it under my breath but I know he hears me because he chuckles and eases up a little. He's no longer grabbing onto me so tightly my bones were bruising; now it was just my skin.

They're going to ask why I'm here.

Obviously they're going to ask but that thought makes my feet stutter and my skin grow cold and wet. I try to control my breathing because it's my biggest tell.

"What brought you here today?"

I run my pointer finger back and forth across my upper lip erratically. I can't really think past the terror lodged into my throat with spikes of pain so it's more of a croak than anything when I finally answer.

"Suicidal thoughts. I just.. I just want to stop hurting."

The nurse tilts his head and wrinkles his eyebrows. I know he's confused but I can't care. Steven helps me onto the table - because I'm short and can't jump - before answering.

"She has physical health problems. They cause her to be in agony on a constant basis."

"I'm just tired.."

I shrug lightly looking at the floor. I'm drilling into it with everything I have but it's not enough to distract me. I clench my fists and answer the onslaught of questions. Every time the nurse speaks my anxiety rachets up another notch until my entire body is shaking and Steven has to physically hold me still.

"She has issues with hospitals."

"They terrify me..." I whisper softly into my chest.

"Can she keep her phone, please?"

He promised they wouldn't take it away and the relief that literally sped through my body in a cool wash was embarrassing. My phone was that important?

My phone was definitely that important.

It meant they couldn't just lock me away. A tear starts to slip from the corner of one eye so I clench my teeth and swallow hard in an effort to stop it from snaking down my cheek like a flood. I dam it up.

"This shirt is too small. Talk about bad timing.." I try to joke about the situation; because how awkward to feel insecure and broken and be reminded of how fat you are.

I think if Steven hadn't been there to request a larger size I would have just suffered through not being able to breathe because I couldn't expand my chest.

"Why do I have to change anyway? And no panties??"

I just feel gross.

I grip Steven's hand in mine until my fingers start to ache. I know he has to leave. Visions of me pounding against the glass of a locked door leak into my brain while he wraps his arms around my shoulders to say goodbye. I clutch his shirt like it's holding me over an abyss. My fingers are slipping and I'm spiraling into the darkness underneath. My legs are being swallowed up and eaten into nothing as I fall.

"I'll text you all night Roze I promise."

His words pull me back and I loosen my grip. My fingertips hurt a little while feeling comes back so I concentrate on that instead of his back as he walks away stiffly.

"It's going to get busy for awhile; you're by the wrong room I guess haha."

A nurse pats my shoulder comfortingly and it startles me. I smile; nervous and in a panic.

'I just want to come home' I text.

'You can't.'

I feel tears threatening to escape my eyes. My head is foggy so fighting is difficult. I see people crying and struggle not to join in. The tears in my throat burn me until it hurts but I blink and blink and blink and blink...

I breathe; they stop for now.

"It's going to be awhile until someone can see you, like a few hours, so why don't you come with me?"

I stand up, grateful to leave the busy and way too public hallway, but apprehensive because these doors are completely locked. I pause in front of them unable to breathe. Breath is caught in my chest like it's too big to pass through; painfully sitting there like a lump of anxiety. 

Instinctively​ I clench my fists because the pain helps me breathe but I feel my phone instead of my palm and finally exhale. I'm not stuck. It doesn't matter if the door locks. I'm alright.

Security has to check me again and I woodenly spread my arms and legs; mostly unable to feel. I've turn it off because until I'm alone I can't afford to totally relax. I just can't.

"If you don't let me out I'm going to kill everyone in this place!"

I sit up quickly - wincing when it hurts. My head is pounding again. A band of iron is tightening around my skull and I can't stop it. More banging and more screaming has me rubbing my temples so hard it hurts​ in a desperate attempt to stop it.

The screaming has stopped - though it reverberates through my head painfully - so I close my eyes and clutch my phone to my chest. I've never depended on anything so much in my life. It's the tank of oxygen keeping me alive while everything else drowns me.

I fall asleep with my face pressed into the hard and uncomfortable couch; thin white blanket pulled up around my neck.

"I didn't do nothing!"
"Sir you punched your father. Are you on anything?"
"Fuck you!"

I jerk so hard I fall from the couch. My heart thuds against the inside of my chest like tiny horse hooves stampeding through my veins. I quickly sit up and watch the open door.

A time bomb. Psych ward are freaking time bombs and I'm terrified. I realize after a second that my body hurts so much because I can't stop shaking. The trembling is jerking my joints and muscles too much and I stiffen myself in an effort to stop. Nothing will happen to you. Nothing can happen to you.

Silence settles once again and even though I stop myself from shaking I can't escape the panic or convince myself to fall asleep. Instead I twirl the blankets fabric between my fingers and wiggle my toes inside the bright yellow hospital issued socks.

"Are you going to be in here long?"

The woman screaming threats last night shuffles into my room and I glance up quickly. I must have fallen asleep sitting here because suddenly it's morning and my back is too stiff to move quickly. Hopefully she isn't a threat.

A nurse quickly runs in and ushers her off with a smile of apology before I can finish wiping my eyes to fully assess the situation.

I've been here all night. All fucking night. I spent all night in a pysch ward and I am still intact. My heart speeds up a little at the thought because I had just crushed my biggest fear.

A knock jars me from my celebration and panic comes rushing back. I am not a bad ass. I am a broken girl unable to escape the physical pain overwhelming me.

"Can you tell me what brought you here last night?"

I sigh. I hate this part. 

My fingers start twitching; I'm pretty sure it isn't my fault. It's involuntary so I grab my phone with both hands to stop it. An ocean is cascading through my veins and pounding in my ears. It's so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts. I watch her lips move and furrow my eyebrows because for a second I truly can't hear her.

"Uhm," I start quietly. I still can't hear myself so I clear my throat and start again. "I. Uhm." I take another breath expanding my lungs until my skin won't go any farther and slowly letting it out. "I was feeling suicidal because I hurt. It's overwhelming me. I can't breathe without pain."

She smiles sympathetically and nods. My eyes dart over every surface of the room but I know I won't remember anything - my head isn't clear. There's another lump in my chest but I knock it away and begin speaking.

I'm unwilling to let my scariest nightmares take over my world; not any longer. 

Nightmarish Reality

The sunlight is damp on my skin. My feet slap against the cement as I cross to the grass barefoot.

My feet are freezing and stuck.

I wiggle my toes; straining against the tape and stumble as I walk, unable to lift my feet from the hot grass.

The hot grass slips between my toes as I pick up twin #1 and wave at #2 over the length of the playground. I lean my face down to #1's face and I'm stuck.

Tears are plastered to my face and hair is a mess of veins against my cheek. My husband has his skin against mine and his tears twist into mine as twin #1 laughs into my hair and I set him back on the ground.

He runs away laughing. I pause to catch my breath because it's trapped in my chest like lead. I twist the balloon strings around my fingers.

They constrict me.

The strings are wrapped across my thighs and ankles.

I know what they're doing so I try not to move. But they're ripping apart my skin and muscle  so I jerk impulsively at the straps. And scream. "I can feel you!"

I can feel you... Tiny hands tug at my pant legs; dirt and ice cream stained.

I look down and smile. Well. A macabre play of one as I fight the razers in my throat and grit in my eyes. That's all he wanted; acknowledgment.

"Please just stop, I can feel it!" Just hear me. Tears are running down my face like acid leaving trails of black in the rivulets. White flashes in the corner of my eyes, pressing against my face; he wipes it all away. "Please." I sob.

I just want to enjoy this birthday. Their birthday. My throat cracks while I watch them both wander across the pavement. But I shake my head slightly to throw the tears from my head because I don't cry in public.

I don't cry. I don't cry. I don't cry. I don't cry. I stare at the ceiling feeling my stomach jerk to the left; my skin split jagged. I concentrate on the stupid dots so hard they're all I can see everywhere I look. My husband's face is covered in dots, the moniter I distantly hear people screaming over is dots, the sheet draping across my expanded belly is dots and I can't think.

I can't think past the flashes in my head for a minute. They impose over my family like flickers of an old TV screen that isn't quite right.

I'm not right anymore because my insides were scooped out to bring these wonderful twin boys into existence and I felt every second.

They're laughing in the hot sun and I'm buried in ice; frozen to the hard table that I can't get off of no matter how hard I jerk. My thighs hurt because I'm pulling at the straps. They're digging into me and splitting the flesh underneath like my body is rotten.

Why? The ceiling and dots blur as my body goes numb and I'm no longer in it.
Floating above myself I hear them talk about my blood pressure bottoming out but it doesn't matter anymore.

It doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter anymore because I'm not there anymore. It's over. It's been over for a year; why won't it go away?

It's splitting into my skull like a jackhammer. The resistance I try desperately to throw up is futile against the onslaught of images and feelings that are scraping my insides raw.

My insides.

Those same insides that were pulled outside. They pawed through me; a human treasure chest..

My stomach twists and I'm wretching into the grass next to my sons' first birthday cake.