Panic attack

Well aren’t you just the big I am, waiting until I am at my lowest ebb before creeping in. Exhausted. Poorly. Vulnerable. What an arsehole you are! Two years this month since my last anxiety pill. Cause for celebration and look who came to the fucking party.

Not. Fucking. Welcome.

I was stronger than you then, I will be stronger than you again.

What’s making me almost smile to myself in the nearly 3am darkness is that I am defiant even as I am rocking backwards and forwards, mindful of the fact that I can’t stop moving. My cheeks are still wet and my mouth still aches from being pulled into that contorted ugly cry. I once read it described as lips looking like two slugs mating. Nice. My arms and legs are burning. My heart is pounding and chest aching. I am on fire but to anyone looking they would just see this weird, rocking, wet faced girl. Woman. Not been a girl for quite some time! I feel so very old. So very, very tired. But, panic – that’s not all your doing. You cannot claim credit for that. That lies with the small toddler beside me. Actually sleeping while I sit and rock and keep the tears quiet. The reason I keep them quiet – because I still control you, panic, because as long as I can keep the tears quiet for her sake it tells me I am still in charge.

You got me once.

Not a-fucking-gain you won’t, mate. Too much to do. Three kids to look after. Play and have fun with. Good distractions, all three of them. You can’t have me because they all have me. Every bit of me. I am far too busy for you today, tomorrow and every day.

Fuck the fuck off.

I’m alright. I’m safe. I’m fine. My mantra. Alright. Safe. Fine. Alright. Safe. Fine.

Said the rocking girl (woman) with the wet face…

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