Paper bags & hyperventilation

Is my body protecting me or am I being irrational?

I get so nervous that I can’t speak. All the words die limply somewhere in the depths of my throat. My hands shake so much that I have to sit on them, or clench my fists so hard my fingernails leave angry red crescents on my palms. My heart beats so fast it might actually thump straight through my chest. Visions of it landing on the floor in front of me, soaking my last gush of violently red blood messily into the carpet, plagues my mind. Thump, thump, then no more. Would this be easier if I ceased to exist?

I know that my face is bright red, and I’ve definitely sweat enough to leave sopping wet marks under my arms, but please don’t think any less of me. It’s just that you might find this small-time, but this is very big-time for me. You think that being a tiny bit nervous isn’t that bad? Try having it so bad it would actually be a relief if I threw up. And all of this is over having to leave my house, by the way, which makes it ten times worse. Just you wait until I’m out on the street, then we’re in trouble.

The inside of the front door in my childhood home humiliates me, even now. Those days are long behind me, but imagining reaching out to grip the handle of it makes my blood run cold. How many afternoons did I spend, curled up in a sobbing heap on the doormat? How many hours did I spend getting ready to go out, only to cower away at the sight of it? My worry lead to upset which lead to frustration, and scuff marks where it’d gotten the better of me. Not the door, the concept of going outside.

But if I saw the outside of that door, and imagined reaching for that handle, I’d be golden. Wave after wave of relief — that overwhelming feeling of no matter how bad the day was, I am now safe. Made even better by the thought of me getting past that, climbing two flights of stairs, and hiding under my bedcovers. Sometimes, six front doors later, hearing the satisfying click it makes when I lock it closed sends warm needles tingling up my spine. I’m home, and nothing can get me now.

It’s called a panic attack because your nervousness fights your system, breaking you down until there’s nothing left that can squirm with fright. I still remember my first time — recoiling onto a shop doorstep in an unfamiliar country, terrified by the throngs of people surrounding me. I couldn’t breathe, my lungs just wouldn’t cooperate, no matter how hard I tried. It felt like that might have been my final moment on this planet, trying to count one, two, three, but the screams of fear were deafening. Was my last memory destined to be of the floor spinning in front of me?

I think that if you met me now, you’d have no clue. Those days of trembling hands reaching out to touch a door I could never quite open are long behind me. I can be confident, and even speak to strangers without wanting to pull out all my hair. Some days, most days, my past self would seethe with envy at how well I can manage myself now. But on others, I find that even a few people is enough to constitute a crowd — and I try pathetically not to melt into the pavement. Or I can be on the bus to work and my heart begins to skip a beat the closer I get to my stop — what if I forget to press the button? Or what if this happens, or what if that happens? And did I just fall into the ocean? Because I really feel like I’m underwater and I’m struggling to breathe…

I know it’ll never be truly over. I will forever be intermittently tormented by my own mind. Perhaps that is my curse.