There’s a ringing in my ears, fog in my eyes, and a dizziness in my head. It’s as though the world around me is closing in and I’m shrinking with it, only my throat can’t keep up, and the narrowness feels as thin as a straw.
I don’t know how, but by the time I can process my surroundings, I’m standing in my bedroom with the door wide open, and desperately looking for something that I won’t find: a source to help me breathe. My erratic heart feels as though it’s going to explode in my chest, my hand relinquishing its hold on the bottle of pills before moving to the neck of my sweater and balling it tightly into my fist.
I’m okay. I’m okay. It’s gonna be okay.
The feeling is all too familiar: I’m at the verge of a panic attack.
This can’t happen here. Not here. Not with them.
Despera
