It starts with a tingle, a slight burn in my stomach, and twinge of confusion in my head. And I know that the panic is going to surface, and I know that I am going to lose all fucking control, and I know that I cannot stop it. So I brace myself. I hold on for dear life and hope that this time I won’t cut myself or try to kill myself or hit or throw things or yell or scream. I hope that this time, I will just curl into a ball and take the beating silently.
I can’t breath. I can’t breathe. One cannot live without breathing, and I cannot breathe.
I desperately pull at my hair, pick at my skin. The tears come, the silent screams, I am bawling now. I say “I can’t do this again,” like I am a prisoner about to be tortured once more.
“Try your dbt skills,” my shrink says.
This is too far past that. I lose all control. I become an insane person, I lose touch with all parts of my sanity. This is not on the same planet as manageable anxiety.
So I go to the doctor. And I bawl on the table, making my husband do most of the talking. I don’t ever stand up for myself, but at this point, I need her help. I never ask for medication, in fact, I told my counselor that I didn’t want nor need it. But things have changed.
“I need something to help me,” I cry.
“Are you going to hurt yourself or someone else? Are you thinking of suicide?”
Am I going to tell her? “Well…” I start, not sure how much to divulge, “When it gets really bad, sometimes I think about, maybe, possibly, doing something … but I mean, I don’t want to.”
“Well, it looks like there isn’t anything I can give you that would be of use to you. Try a crisis clinic if things get bad.”
And I look at her. And a million shards of glass pierce my heart. That is the problem here with society.