“My ex still misses me. But her aim is getting better”
For some reason this comes to my mind every time I think back at what happened, which is more often than not. For some reason the simplicity of the old joke just describes the outline of the entire situation perfectly.
As I lie in this hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, the images and voices flash through my mind. The screaming echoes around my head. I squeeze my eyes shut and force the screaming to stop, hoping to stop the panic attack before it gets out of hand.
This is why I am dreading seeing a therapist, and I know it’s necessary. I know they’ll get me to go through everything step by step, adding simple and irritating phrases such as “What happened next?”, “Go on” and “how did that make you feel” as input. I don’t want to go through it again. I don’t want to experience that pain again.
I decide to ready myself. No point in throwing a tantrum when I eventually meet the sad sop who’ll have to put up with my panic attacks for god knows how long. They’ve gotten a lot worse since the incidents. The panic attacks, I mean. They used to only occur once or twice a year, sometimes less. Now it’s almost once every couple of days, and they last longer.
Well that’s enough procrastination already. The doctor will be in any minute now to do some ‘tests’. I close my eyes and take my mind back to where it began.