I guess I was wrong.
I do know what it feels like, to struggle to breathe.
To choke on oxygen.
To feel like a serrated blade is wedged between my ribs.
With every pulse of my heart, I can feel it.
So, I guess I was wrong.
I just forgot.
Or, maybe I've been deluding myself.
Trying to put on a happy face.
I've never tried so hard to force myself to breathe.
When people ask me what's wrong,
I don't know what to say anymore.
"How's it going?"
The pause echoes, where acquaintances breath out a grinning 'Fine, you?'
The silence is filled with my jagged breath; it tastes of blood.
They falter for a moment in their steps as they walk past, realising the silence. Noticing the lack of words. I choke and sputter a breathless response:
Please, stop asking what's wrong.
I can't tell you.
Nothing's wrong. I'm okay.
I'm healthier than I've been in a while, physically.
I'm doing better in college than I have in a while, academically.
What can I say?
"I can't breathe?"
"I can't sleep?"
"I can feel my heart, heavy in my chest like twenty-pound weight, tossing around with every step I take?"
"Every time I eat, I die a little inside, because this resurfacing anorexia gives me a feeling of control over my ocean-wrecked consciousness and a sickening self-harming satisfaction?"
Or, maybe most of all, how little I feel.
I used to think heights were my biggest fear.
My mind terrifies me.