Mind Reconstructive

Breathe

(A/n)- Hello anyone reading this. Nice to meet you! this is just a quick warning there are a lot of errors in this story, and probably way to many commas, as well as words that I have made up :P If you cannot understand it then I sincerely apologize, and if you can, then well done! I hope you enjoy this tale.( Constructive criticism is always welcome.) -Kaelyn

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I am alive. I am not dying. I am not alone. I am not hurt. I am going to live. I will live.

I chant these words over and over to myself. My head hurts and I am hyperventilating. I have a family. I have help. I am not where I was. I am alright. My breathing slows and my heart calms itself.

Inhale for seven seconds, hold it for four, exhale for eight. Repeat. I open my eyes, trying to assess my situation. I am crouched in a closet with clothes draped over my head, and my hands over my ears. I am sweaty, and panting slightly, but I can breathe properly.

"Honey, please come out. I'm worried about you...Erril? Please answer me..." I hear Georgia, (Mrs. Willem) talking to me through the locked door. Her distress is evident, s I rise on weak legs and open the door.

"Oh, Sweetie," She looks at my red-rimmed eyes and pale face, and takes me into her arms immediately. I feel like stiffening, and almost do, but manage to compose myself before my reaction actually occurs.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen." I say, my voice muffled by the fabric of her shirt, but my regret reverberating in every word I say.

"Erril, look at me."

I look up at Georgia, finding it hard to meet her gaze.

"This is not your fault. Your past is not your fault, and these panic attacks are not your fault. I know you think it is, but darling, none of this happened because of you. Alright?"

"I...I know..." I say, startled that she knows...she knows I blame myself...Am I that easy to read? That will have to change...

She gives me another hard look before allowing me to excuse myself to fix my hair and makeup, which have become quite messy. I take deep breaths as I climb the steps to my room.

"Inhale for seven seconds, hold it for four, and exhale for eight. This helps control your breathing and slows your heartbeat." That's what the psychiatrist told me to do. It has worked fairly well, but lately I've been getting nearly too upset to do even that.

Life's not easy when you can't even breathe.

I walk down the hall to my spacious bedroom and flop down onto my huge bed. The sheets are soft and attain a comforting, home-like scent. I breathe it in, take in the absolute safety of this entire place. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8. I count as I breathe. Perhaps it will all get better. The anxiety and panic attacks will leave my mind and body, and I will be well and at peace. I will be strong, and not weak, I will be healthy, not sick. I will be happy, not the mentally-scarred mess that I happen to be at the moment.

"What happened that made you this way?" they asked. I answered;

"I don't want to talk about it."

And I haven't. I never have, and I never will. The secrets are too dark, the scars too deep. I must heal, but how? How can I heal when I cannot even verbally recall what has happened to me?

I sigh, rubbing my eyes as I remove myself from the bed, and my mind from these thoughts. There are things to be done before the little ones come home from school.