Some Say the World Will End in Fire |l.s.|

twenty five

It's been a few days since the episode. Turns out, it was all in my head. I was screaming and sobbing against the bathtub, and I'd vomited a few times. Mum was trying to wake me up for fifteen minutes before she called Harry over. I'd seen him and mum enter the bathroom, but I didn't really see it. Apparently, it took half an hour for me to fall asleep, and they've been watching me like a hawk ever since.

I guess they have good reason to, though. I remember begging to die, and something tells me that part wasn't just in my imagination. I haven't really gotten much sleep since then. Every time I close my eyes, I have flashbacks and nightmares, and I just can't handle those right now. I know Harry's tired because I text or call him every night, and sometimes he comes over 'cause I get anxious, and he has to calm me down. He does what he can to help, and that includes telling me not to feel guilty for his lack of sleep, even though I am. 

I think I've gotten worse since I stopped taking the meds. Mum and Harry assured me time and time again that I'd get better once I was off those things, but I don't feel like it. It's gotten so bad recently, I've missed this entire past week and I know I'll have to go back next week. Harrys helped me with breathing when I get anxious a lot, and I know he's done a lot of research on anxiety for me, which I couldn't me more grateful for. I've gotten better with taking deep breaths and doing different exercises, but I've never been able to stop my attacks alone.

I also feel bad when I flinch around him. He always has to apologize for moving to suddenly, and he almost seems scared to come near me in fear of causing me any sort of panic. I don't like making him feel guilty or be extra cautious around me, and no amount of reassurance can change the fact that he can't do anything because of me.

Right now, Harry's probably on his way home from school. I know the only reason he started going again is to help me, but I made him promise me to go this week, even though I'm not. He's too proud to admit that he has hope for his own future, so he uses the excuse that he needs to pick up my homework from each class and catch me up on the lessons.

I don't focus on that, though, and instead I focus on trying to breathe. Within the first hour of being home completely alone, I was taking deep breaths, and I know that that's just delaying the inevitable panic attack. Every time I see something in the corner of my eye like a door or a coat hanging up, for a split second I think it's Anthony. Call me paranoid, but I feel like he's watching me. I can always feel his presence, no matter where I am or who I'm with.

I try taking a super deep breath, but I feel like I'm just not getting there all the way, like there's something holding me back from taking the full breath. I furrow my brows, taking another breath and this one seems shallower than the first, and I feel nervous knowing I can't fully breathe. I try to take another one, and it's so small it causes an instant panic in me.

The breaths become fast paced and shallow, and I don't feel any air coming in or leaving me. I can hear my loud wheezing and I know I'm having a panic attack. Shaking my jittery hands up and down, I pace back and forth with my eyes closed, trying to take a deep breath and failing time and time again.

Taking shuttering breaths, I manage to take breaths that are deeper and deeper. I put a hand on my chest, feeling it rise and fall quickly and I will myself to slow it down. I think about the fact that Harry is almost home, and I think about the comfort and love I feel when he's holding me. I picture him right by my side, I picture his slow and steady breathing, and soon enough I open my eyes to feel my breathing steady and my heartbeat getting slower and slower.

The door opens and I flinch at the loud noise before Harry makes his way into the kitchen where I'm currently standing. I hug him quickly and hugs me back.

"Hey babe, you alright?" he asks. I nod into his chest, not mentioning the minor panic attack I just had. "How was your day?"

"Good," I answer. "How was yours?"

"Boring. I missed you, thought," he tells me.

"Me too."

"Are you sure you're alright? Your heart is beating sort of fast," he tells me.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly.

"What?"

"I'm sorry for being such a burden to you all the time. I'm making everything difficult," I tell him. He pulls back from me, hands on my shoulders as he looks down into my eyes.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Lou. You're recovering," he says, hugging me again and running a hand through my hair to calm me.

"It doesn't feel like it," I mumble.

"It's painful, but there's no way of meeting your end goal without the fight to get there." 

"I'm tired of fighting." 

"I know, babe," he sighs. "I know."