Stomach heart

My anxiety flows like a violently cascading river down from my brain where it's recklessly bouncing off the pink, or is it grey, walls. It gets caught in my throat, aided in its nuisance by the pollen dust that makes a New England backyard look like the chartreuse dust bowl. It continues still, right to my stomach, and that's where it thrives. Good for it, bad for me. My stomach and heart seem to mold together just under my ribcage. They pound in a flopping sort of way. Sometimes it's right to left, and sometimes it's up and down. It's an annoying mix of fear, so much fear, and what-ifs for the bad and what-ifs for the good. When did simply existing become such an internal battle? An anxious, mental battle that will have no winner. Oh, right, this started when I was five. But that was decades ago, and now I'm on edge, a good one, I swear, because wow, does that sound terrible out of context. It's just the entire summer. Every day of my favorite time of year. It's fine, right? I've masked in more ways than one for all my existence. 



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

CAEB

I looked at my Fitbit. It was 1:00. Fredrick would sleep until about 2:30. We would leave to pick up Francis from preschool at 2:45. I had time to start another load of laundry. I should probably add Fredricks' clothes in as well; he went through onesies like crazy. I gazed down the foyer, then up the tan carpeted stairs. I wanted to pass out from exhaustion just thinking about climbing up to the second floor and making my way into the baby's room. I sighed but started walking. I paused at the foot of the staircase. I felt my eyes closing as I began to dredge myself up. I was using the railing excessively, but that only made my arms as tired as my legs and the rest of my body.  When I finally reached the top, I wanted to cry. Something was very wrong. I'd been exhausted before, but not like this. I looked down the hallway. There was no way I could make it to Fredricks' room to collect his laundry, and I certainly couldn't make the journey back down the stairs.   Sen
Read more

Another One

*An excerpt from my memoir* My mom decided to go back to work when I was about nine. By this time, I was four years deep in my panic attacks and anxiety, issues that would only be dealt with when I was in my early twenties and on my own. Naturally, this big change in my life left me feeling sheer terror. I had only recently transferred to my current school and most of the kids thought I was weird.  I had a couple of friends, but none that lived nearby, so it was doubtful they'd be on my bus route.  Would I get picked on and teased more, being a bus kid? What if I had one of those...'things?' (I wouldn't learn the words 'panic attack' for years.) While having one of those 'things' I remember going to mom, heart pounding, "Who'll take care of me?" I blurted out.  "How will I get to school?" She chose to ignore the first question and snapped, "The bus! How else?" My heart was beating like a bass drum, it was surely going to
Read more

It Doesn't Pay to be Polite

Years ago, I bought two tickets for my Dad and I to see his first Broadway play. It was non-musical and history based, right up his ally.  After exploring New York City all day, we lined up at the small theaters side entrance. I was so excited! I mean, how could you not be, it's Broadway!  As we waited in line, I told my Dad that we should silence and put away our phones, and stash our sunglasses, I have always been a stickler for proper theater etiquette. I put my regular glasses on, then placed my silenced phone and sunglasses into my tiny purse and zipped it up. My Dad and I started to chat.  Seconds later, a yellow taxi pulled up and a tall man with a shoulder bag and sunglasses jumped out of the backseat, yelling his thanks as he closed the cab door and rushed onto the sidewalk.  My mouth sprang open, my lower jaw dangerously close to hitting the pavement.  The man dashed over to the theater door, accidentally bumped into my left shoulder, tilted his head in apology and sincer
Read more