Painted Smiles [completed]

January 23

A panic attack feels like a sudden despondency. When you first realize something's wrong, it's too late. Your body starts shaking and you can't control your legs. Well, at least that's how it is for me.

I haven't had a panic attack in months. The last time I remember having a real panic attack was near my birthday, or sometime afterwards. That's when I began mutilating myself by scratching one spot until it bled. I still have those scars.

I forgot how my body responded to panic attacks. Beforehand, I only remembered the shaking. The stereotypical "curl up in a ball and cry" was all I could recall from my experiences. It's much more different than that now.

I first fell on the floor, letting myself hug the carpet. I hit my leg on the way down, and I let it lay uncomfortably in its position. My stomach started to heave, and it took all of my effort to stop from puking.

I didn't start crying until a minute after hyperventilating. I lost feeling in my lungs and panted like crazy. My whole chest burned with the realization of failure.

It's hard to fail when you don't try to begin with. I was so happy up until the panic attack, or up until today. I never tried to do something difficult, so it was impossible to fail.

Having your hopes and dreams get crushed it just about the worst feeling ever. Realizing you're useless is also pretty bad, but perhaps the most prominent realization I had was the fact that I was talentless.

I rooted my beliefs and got cocky. I thought I should be proud, but karma always finds a way to ruin that. I should give up on trying to be normal. I'm talentless, and I've known that for too long to be surprised.

I bawled my eyes out. I forgot to remove my makeup, so the backs of my hands were covered in black makeup. I began curling up into a ball, but only to cry into my knees. My fist pounded the ground roughly. I was angry and so sad.

"No, no, no," I repeated to myself softly. I couldn't let my parents hear me, but I wanted myself to hear me. I wanted to have the anxiety consume me until I suffocated. I wanted my heart to explode. It's been too long since I felt that way.

A thought came to mind. Why don't I ask someone for help? I reached for my phone, weakly grabbing it from atop my bed. It was heavy in my hand and fell before my face.

I wondered who I should text. Gretchen and Sasha were off my list. They were tired of my bullshit, and they were tired of me in general. They didn't want to hear it, and they had no pity left for me. Kathleen was also off my list. She didn't know what it felt like to be me. Her depression stemmed from the girl she last dated, but it was nothing like what I felt. Plus, she was consumed with the "oh, baby girl, it's okay" shit. I didn't want to hear her tell me everything was fine while trying to flirt with me.

Then, it came to me. For some reason, I opened iMessage to my chat with Chelsea. We last chatted about Triple D, talking about her shoulder surgery.

There was no purpose for me to get Chelsea involved. We were good friends, but we had grown further apart since second term. We only kept touch when necessary, and we never saw each other.

A part of my thinks I texted her because I knew she was what I needed. She knew what depression felt like, even if it wasn't like mine. She also wasn't tired of me.

I texted her, and she immediately started calming me down. I washed my face and changed clothing. I made myself look normal as she lifted my spirits with her sweet words.

That was why I liked her, and I hated admitting it. I missed her.

My body still trembled and twitched when I thought about the whole situation. I was going to disappoint everyone; adults, friends, and my parents.

She told me that she loved me, and that I did things for her that no one else ever did, and I felt better.

After parting conversation, I went to do chores around the house. My face was red, and my eyes were puffy, but my parents didn't notice. My mother was too busy reading on her Kindle. My father occupied himself with his piano. I had to say it to myself. I didn't love them.

After finishing the job, I perched in my room and stared at the hard work I had done over the years. Instead of sobbing into my hands, tears streamed down my face like a glistening river. I stared at the words on the page and the screen on my laptop. All of the hard work ended up pointless.

P.S. I Feel Like Complete Shit RN