permanently etched

1: Rydell

Breathe. Jesus Rydell get your shit together and take a deep breath. What would mom say if she saw you right now? Probably something like, "I don't know where this is coming from, there's nothing to be anxious about." And maybe she's right about that, but sometimes I can't help it.

Nope that didn't help. Actually, I'm pretty sure it makes it a whole hell of a lot worse. What would Andromeda say? Most likely she'd shove some lavender in my face and tell me that it will help me relax. My little sister is obsessed with essential oils and thinks it's the solution to every problem. And sometimes it's a solution to this problem, but I've deeply inhaled half the fumes from my lavender oil and I'm still hyperventilating like I'll never be able to catch a goddamn breath.

Ah panic attacks. My favorite way to start off a probably already shitty day. That was sarcasm if you didn't catch it. You see, ever since I switched schools in 3rd grade, something in my brain clicked on to instant panic mode, and I've been dealing with panic and anxiety attacks ever since.

And I know what you're thinking, "That's such a stupid reason to get panic attacks", or "You're probably faking it, if that's the worst thing that you've gone through." I've heard it all before and I wish I could say I was faking it, because at the moment I feel like I'm on the verge of passing out, but alas, I am not. And trust me, I'm aware that my problems aren't nearly as big as others. And I know that I probably have no reason to feel anxious all the time, but there's just something fucked with my brain, and I really don't know what started it. Actually, I have an idea of what might have started it, but that's something that I haven't opened up to anyone about. Not my parents, not Andy, not Sam, not a single soul, and probably never will. Because my Grandpa touched me in inappropriate places when I was 8 fucking years old, and when I told my Grandma about it, the look on her face was so horrific that I said I was probably dreaming and left it at that.

I wasn't dreaming, but I couldn't bear to look at my Grandma's face that instantly paled because I hate seeing people upset. And now I'm a 21-year-old senior in college and if I said anything now, no one would believe me. And I mean it only happened like 3 times when I was 8, so it's not that big of a deal, right? Right, because other people are dealing with shit so much worse than mine and I refuse to put that type of burden on anyone else. I can deal with it myself; I always do. Plus, I've lasted this long without going completely insane, so what's the rest of my life doing just that?

"Hey Del are you up yet?"

Oh shit, I thought Sam already left for class.

"I've decided to make the executive decision to skip sociology this morning because I don't need Professor Douchebag's toxicity today. Mental health days are important, am I right?"

I can't physically answer her because I'm currently sitting on the ground trying to take a simple breath and apparently that's too hard. And I don't want her to come into my room because then she'll just worry about me like she always does.

But life hates me because about 5 seconds later I hear my door open and the concerned voice of my lovely roommate, "Fuck Del, you should have come got me as soon as this shit started."

I give her a little wave of the hand as if to say, "Please, this small thing? It's nothing."

Sam crouches down to my level. Takes my hands off my ears and puts my fingers on the pulse on my wrist.

Sam knows the drill by now. When I have panic attacks, I like to feel my heartbeat. I don't know how I picked that up, but after about a year of getting panic attacks I wrapped my fingers around my wrist and the feeling of my pulse somehow calmed me down a bit. I think it reminds me that I'm alive even when I feel like I'm drowning. Gives me a reality check if you will. And when I start to count my heartbeats; it gives me a distraction from my mess of a mind.