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"cry, let that water go, you were drowning"
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TW: This chapter depicts scenes of anxiety and a panic attack. Please skip this if it triggers you or makes you feel uncomfortable, and reach out if you need anything at all.
Today has been one of those weird days. I've been anxious and on edge from the moment I woke up.
I've been keeping myself busy studying and baking but while it is distracting me, it's done nothing to actually help the anxiety rising in my chest. It's more so a bandaid, not a cure.
The worst part is, I'm not sure why I'm feeling like this, which means it feels next to impossible to try and calm myself down. Luckily, it's about 10:00 PM which means I've managed to get through most of the day without it getting out of control.
The timer beeps, tearing me from my thoughts, and I put on my oven mitt to pull out the batch of cookies I made.
The scent fills the kitchen and invades my nostrils.
Until it doesn't.
Out of seemingly nowhere, my attachment to reality is severed. Suddenly, I can't smell, hear, or see anything, and I know the panic attack has started.
Shit.
My vision is blurry, my ears are ringing, and my head is pounding. I can no longer feel my hands or feet and I feel an overwhelming urge to run to the bathroom and expel all the contents of my stomach.
I need to take deep breaths, I think to myself. I inhale through my nose and exhale out through my mouth like I've done so many times before, but air doesn't seem to be reaching my lungs. My racing heart is all I can focus on and when I feel lightheaded, I know I've begun to hyperventilate.
"It's going to be okay. I'm fine. I'm safe. This will pass," I mutter to myself in hopes it'll ground me. But it doesn't work and what should be a tool to stop the panic, is merely words with no meaning.
Shaking like a leaf, I grasp the edge of the countertop and lower myself onto the floor. I can't be standing right now. I lean back, resting my head on the cabinets behind me, and shut my eyes tight.
"It's going to– to be o–okay," I barely get out through sobs. "Th–this will p–p–pass." Talking myself down is no use, so I give up on repeating any sort of comforting words.
I rest my head in my hands, and just let myself cry. I know I've reached a point of no return. Unfortunately, now it's just a waiting game. I have to ride this out and, if luck is on my side, I'll eventually tire myself out enough to stop.
"Dell, we're home!" I think I hear someone call out, but I can't be sure. My head feels like it's underwater, and making sense of anything feels like an unthinkable task. I can only hope whoever just walked into the house will find me and pull me out from my own thoughts.
