You'd think I could never, ever forget what it was like to be anxious. How could anyone forget that? That exhaustion, that pain, that debilitation, that fear.
But I did. I forgot it. I forgot how much my chest hurts with every breath. I forgot the headaches and the butterflies in my stomach. I forgot the restlessness, the racing heart, the crushing feeling in my ribs. I forgot what it was like to count the days. Count the hours. Count the minutes trying to hold it together.
I forgot because I've been doing so well. Because I let myself forget. I slowly reduced my meds until I could cope without them altogether. I was stable. I was happy.
Until something happened. I'm not sure what exactly, but something. Or many things. Many little things that just aren't so "little" in the grand scheme of my childhood fear, confusion, frustration, mistrust. Things that somehow triggered me. One thing, or two, or a handful of external pressures that just... built up inside me until they burst. Set me off like a bomb I forgot was there.
Only not like a bomb. Not a shell-shocking explosion. More like a slow-releasing toxic gas that seeps into my lungs and pores without me even realizing it.
And then. Then the effects begin to make themselves known. I start to feel it. To know it. To recognize it.
It hits and I don't want to leave my bed. It hits and crying seems easier and yet harder than it ever has. It hits and Adam's Song on the radio shoves me into a panic. It hits and... and I'm terrified that I'm back where I started, with no power, and no strength, and no logic to save me.
And it hurts.
And I'm trapped.