Panic On The Other Side.

My husband has no idea that I'm lying behind him crying - none. He has headphones on so he can easily hear his team speak online and I always have a fan running right next to me. Still, I bury my face into the thick blanket bunched up under my arms to conceal any sound I might possibly make because I don't want him to know.

When did a game become more important than myself?

Tears sting my eyes and scratch at my throat like nails. It feels like tiny humans live inside me and the only way they can escape the hell that is my body is by digging their fingernails into my throat and climbing; yet they keep falling and scraping as they go. Punishment for failing I suppose.

I can hear him speak which means his mic is active so I try to control my breathing enough that it won't get picked up. It shouldn't either way. After all, it's a professional mic. He bought it for me almost a year ago and I've still never used it because I'm too much of a coward to try recording myself. A sob escapes my clenched lips so I stuff the blankets over my face again struggling to calm down.

Don't panic. I can't panic. I won't panic.

I will not destroy his game.

The blanket becomes too hot so I push it away and stare mindlessly at my arm while tears fall slowly down my cheeks making rivers and pathways that get diverted. I can taste them on the corners of my lips and it disgusts me. I feel pathetic and weak.I want so badly to cut myself that I can feel the scissors beneath my fingers: I can see my skin splitting and blood slowly welling up from the edges. It's a temptation I've been resisting for months. I shake my head and repeat "no" over and over and over to myself like a mantra, like that'll keep me from running into the other room and grabbing them from on top of the mirror and slashing them across my wrist.


I am not important. 

I'm trying so desperately to stop any flashbacks from completely taking me over that I'm shaking. The blanket is wet from my tears and sticking to my face, my breath is so hot it's suffocating, and panic starts to grip my soul anyway. It's like these leeching fingers hold onto my insides and peel away parts of me until I just can't fight anymore, until there's nothing but raw and empty emotion left. I'm nothing but this husk of instinct and currently it's screaming at me to run. 

So I do. 

With zero hesitation I throw the blanket off, barely choke back a sob, and escape to the bathroom down the hall. I slam the door shut. Spinning the knob so the air kicks on and muffles any noise I simultaneously twist the lock and double check it so he can't come in just in case he noticed my extremely hasty retreat. I turn the light on for a second but catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. In disgust I quickly slam the switch back down so that I'm swallowed in darkness.

I collapse against the door. 

My recently dislocated knee doesn't allow me to drop to them so I'm left standing with my face pressed against the wood feeling the grains rub into my forehead as I repetitively move back and forth while tears stream into my mouth. My hands are pressed into the door while waves of memories fuck me. I can't turn on the light, I just can't. But I can feel hands touching me and shoving into me. I can feel people watching me. Shame. Disgust. Hatred. 

There's a ball of weakness and pain that's living inside my ribs trying to break them to get out but I shove closer against the door and cry harder - convincing myself I don't need to cut. I can do this without it. I can do this without him. My breathing picks up. It's too much. It's all too much and I'm pushing further into the door to get away from nothing while the wood begins to hurt my face. I'm hyperventilating now. In and out. In and out so fast It's not dark in this room anymore and I'm barely crying. 

I'm leaning against the door because I can't stand; my legs are too weak. I'm too weak. I'm disgusting and weak and worthless. Hands. Hands again. I recoil. I pull my shoulder up so fast it slams into the door hard enough to bruise and my breathing catches. 

When did his game become more important than my life? 

Why am I in this bathroom screaming into my head and trying desperately not to make a sound because I'm too terrified that I'll disturb him? I sob around all the breaths that are making me nauseous and struggle to stop. This is on me. This is me. This is my fault. This is my panic. This is my attack. This is ME. I hold my breath until I can't anymore while my hands shake so hard that I can't keep them still on the door then I hold it again. 

I keep holding my breath until I can finally breathe normally, until the tears have dried against my face, and my hands have stilled on the bathroom door. I want to be a strong woman who can handle anything life and my brain throws at me but it seems that I just can't. 

I can't stop a panic attack, I can't stop an anxiety spiral or PTSD trigger. I can't make myself stop having borderline personality disorder or loathing myself. I just have to weather it and come out on the other side.