-𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠-f.w

𝚘𝚗𝚎

tw!! deatlied description of a panic attack and mention of traumatic experience

The blood coursed through my veins. I could feel it. I could feel the sloshing in between my arteries. My heart beat in a rhythmic pattern, my chest was visibly rising and falling. My blood flew through my ears and I could hear it flooding my audible canals.

My hands began to tremble. My palms clammy, I reached for my water. Carefully lifting the paper cup to my lip, I tried swallowing the liquid in one sip but it didn't go down. My throat was closing up. I spit the water out and my hands flew to my neck as I attempted to breathe even though I felt like I was drowning.

I was hot. I was sweaty. I stripped myself of every article of clothing incarcerating my body. I fell to the floor in agony as my throat continued to close.

This is it. This is how I die.

My heart seemed to beat even faster, its pace accelerating with each forced inhale I took. My breaths were sharp and shallow and were hard to get in. The blood continued to slosh around in an unknown space behind my ears. My vision was next to gone, I could hardly see and a dreamlike haze seemed to lurk in my eyes.

You're dying. You're dying alone. You are living your greatest nightmare.

The blood was rushing to my head and I felt like I had been hanging upside down for days. My limbs felt numb and limp and I began to question if they were even real. I was drowning in my thoughts, I was being held down underwater and there wasn't any air. My chest felt heavy, my thoughts-heavier. I stood up and instantly collapsed as I felt myself sinking into the floorboards.

I don't remember anything after that. I just remember waking up, in an exhaustion hangover that put me in a thirteen hour sleep coma. My body was purely exhausted. I don't know how much time passed or how long I was out for. All I know is I am alive, and I never want that to happen again.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

"PTSD." She closed her book and placed the tip of her pen in her mouth.

"I'm sorry, come again?"

"It seems you are suffering from PTSD, post traumatic stress disorder. It explains everything, the panic attacks, the dreams. It's PTSD my love." The pen retracted from her mouth and her notebook re opened. "Trust me you aren't the only one. Another one of my patients has a similar story and also suffers from PTSD.

"It's Harry. You can say it's Harry I know it is." Effy said.

The women behind the desk didn't say anything.

"How exactly do you know this?" Effy asked again.

"I have a PhD." Her pen danced along her page. "Effy can I ask you something."

"You're wrong." She sat up in her chair. "I don't have PTSD, or panic attacks or whatever, I think I'm dying and when it happens I'm brought right back to it all and I can't breath and the dreams- How do you explain the dreams!"

"Effy- that's what PTSD is. You just explained it to a T."

"Well then get rid of them, isn't there like a spell I can use or something? That's your job right?" Anger fluctuates in Effy's voice.

"They're any spells for these types of illnesses-"

"Well than fuck this." She stood up and aggressively slammed the door as she exited the pale pink perfumey room.

"Minerva. Did you see that."

"I heard and saw all of it. How much longer is this gonna take.

The women in the chair turned around to face Mcgonagall. "You can't rush feelings, Minerva, just wait." She lit her cigarette and lifted from her seat behind her desk. "I feel a breakdown coming on. It's all gonna hit her at once just like it did Potter, it's gonna be a rush!"