autonomy ; gawsten

i

trigger warnings for anxiety/panic attacks

"Watch where you're going!"

"Stupid kid."

He jumps at the voices, stumbles, and pitches forward. The world seems to tilt on its side in that moment. He smacks against the ground and stops, stays there, takes in a ragged breath and waits.

His head is spinning. It feels like the world is, like it's one of those rings kids whirl around on their fingers, like he's trapped inside and watching everything swirl around him. It sets the pace for his head, starts up the whirlpool in his stomach, makes everything around him go blurry and slightly fuzzy at the edges.

He forces down a swallow and lets his back sag against the wall behind him. His vision is swimming. Someone is talking to him, holding out a hand and saying something that sounds like a bunch of garbled sounds. He isn't sure what they're saying. They sound far away, like they're speaking through glass or have moved to a different room.

He shakes his head and holds up a hand. "I-I'm fine." He can't say more. He tries to form more words, but nothing comes out. It feels like a barrier's been set up right at the front of his throat. The words are behind, beating at the wall with their fists and trying to tunnel through, but he's constructing obstructions that leave him unable to function.

He makes out the faintest sound of their footsteps as they walk away, tries to inhale and hold it for longer than a second. The breath comes but doesn't last, stills but doesn't stay, opens but doesn't invite. His chest still feels tight. The straw he's breathing through is smaller than it ever has been.

When his vision starts to clear, he lifts his head and lets his gaze travel all the way around, gets a first glimpse of his surroundings and then closes his eyes once more.

He doesn't know where he is.

It's a street that looks the same as every other street he's been on. There are signs and car horns and everyone seems too angry for 9 o'clock in the morning, but the physicality is no different than the street his new apartment is on, the street his job is located on, the street he was on ten minutes ago.

He forces himself to swallow. You're fine. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. We'll figure this out. Just gotta map it and follow that. You're fine. Just gotta map it. And then you'll be home and Jet will be there and it'll all be okay.

Some days the voice is nice. Some days it's methodical, tells him what he has to do to stop feeling like the world is about to burn to the ground instead of pouring gasoline on the fire. Some days the world doesn't feel like it has talons gripping onto his back, nails embedded in his skin, a mist that floats through his skin and into his bones and wakes up his heart, gives it the push to start running when he least expects it to.

Some days the world feels like it's on his side.

He braces against the wall and lifts into a standing position, leans back as soon as he straightens when his body starts to fall forward again. Home. Jet. Breathe.

He types gibberish at first. His hands are shaking so badly that the phone feels like it'll fall to the ground any second. He takes a couple steps forward, feels the growing hole in his heart expand even more. Nausea rushes to fill the empty space. His head spins again, does a full rotation on its axis and blurs the world once more.

You are six minutes away from your destination.

Home. Jet. Breathe.

The street signs all look the same. He tries to make a note of every single one he goes by, tries to commit them to memory and take a mental picture of where he is and what he's walking past- this cannot happen again. This cannot happen again. You better not embarrass yourself like this again.

He knows every place his car will dip on a particular road. He knows how to get from his house to the library and the gym and the mall blind. He knows that if he leaves his house and starts walking, he'll either end up at the lake or the entrance to the woods or in the neighboring housing development.

He doesn't know this.

He doesn't know the same street sign twenty times over, passing one corner and wondering if he's walked at all – was that real did that just happen am I actually walking anywhere or just imagining it – the car horns that blare every two seconds, people rolling down their windows and leaning out of their vehicles to scream at each other there are so many people there are always so many people everywhere what the fuck where do they all come from why are there so many fucking people-

He knows the ache in his chest. He knows the extent to which it stretches, the sheets of pain that layer over each other, press into one another to go higher and higher until everything was exploding. He knows the stingers in his skin; the buzzing that makes his hands shake and the world wobble. He knows feeling cold and then hot in a matter of minutes. The cool dies as quickly as it comes, and then it's all hot and he needs to get out, get away, breathe.

It hasn't stopped since he's been here. He goes to sleep with the feelings and they're there when he wakes up. He forces himself to inhale and take deep breaths but it only keeps boiling over, spilling into his chest and setting every part of it on fire.

It hasn't stopped.

Home. Jet. Breathe.

His hands slide against the door handle as he pulls it. He jumps, sneaks a glance at the man tapping his foot behind him and stumbles through the door. He lets go of it too quickly in the process, almost trips over his feet and runs for the elevator what if it hit him what if he finds me fuckfuckfuck-

Home. Jet. Breathe.

"You're okay," he speaks the words out loud. "You're fine. Breathe. Stop freaking out. There's nothing to freak out about. Breathe."

It takes him three tries to unlock his apartment door. The world is going swirly and spotty in front of him. He feels like he's going to fall over. Everything is coming at him, all at once. Hi chest is too tight and everything is too much and it's all happening at the same time how did this happen how did he get here how is this his life what happened what the fuck-

Something moves against his legs. It rubs against his ankle, and curls around his other leg.

Home. Jet. Breathe.

"Hey," he whispers. It comes out hoarse and sends pinpricks up his throat. The liquid is collecting in front of his eyes, like each tear is a drop on a penny and he's trying to beat the record for how many can fit before the bubble bursts and he starts crying.

He bends down and holds his hands out. She purrs loudly and jumps into them, catches his cheeks with her tongue as he lifts her up and into his chest. She keeps licking, settles against him and rubs her cheek against his.

He watches a tear fall into her fur, feels her move her tongue to right under his eye and concentrate her strokes there. He smiles.

"We're gonna be okay, right?"

oops