Anxiety

Anxiety is nausea. It’s a churning in the pit of my stomach. A tingling sensation seeps across my fingertips and through my toes. They are completely numb. I take slow, deep breaths, in and out, in and out, trying to calm the urge to vomit. My head pounds with the same rapid rhythm as my heartbeat, and I grit my teeth against the pain. Sweat starts to drip from my pores, coating every inch of my skin in moisture.

Anxiety is chaos. I can’t think straight. Every thought I have is quickly replaced with another; quick flashes of colour, sound, dread. So many thoughts try to fight for my attention. Thick black chords of jumbled words, phrases, memories, and predictions weave themselves around me. Friends making plans without me. Stumbling over words. Injections. Waiting in the airport. Driving too fast along the motorway. Public speaking. Being late for work. Being too early. Forced into awkward conversation with a stranger. Phone calls. Bad things will happen. Self-doubt. Embarrassment. Loathing.

Chaotic thoughts swirl around my brain, and I’m helpless to stop them. I brace myself against the wall in front of me, trying to place enough pressure on my palms to distract me from the onslaught of thoughts. I focus on the pain, and let it ground me in the present.


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Panic

Panic is hands in my hair, gripping so tightly my roots ache. It’s the sound of sirens; a sharp pain in my ear that I can’t escape. It’s clutching my head in my hands as everything around me heightens; sharpens. Lights are brighter, clearer, and yet black spots corrupt my vision. I can feel the blade above me, dangling precariously by a thread. Waiting. Anticipating. The knife will drop, and all I can do is wait for the sharp blade to pierce my skin.

Panic is out of my control. Someone else holds the scissors that will cut the thread and release the knife. I beg and plead, over and over, please don’t cut the string. The response is manic laughter, an insane cackle, and the threatening snip, snip, snip of the scissors.

Panic is fight or flight. My lungs burn with need. I need more oxygen, more air, or I have no chance of escaping the blade that threatens to end me. Survival mode is triggered, and every part of my mind, body and soul is fixated on escape.


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