Wading, Waiting

I am depressed too often these days. Or rather, moments of depression rise up and crest, and then they subside until the next one arrives. A cursory look through the archive of my writing will show that I have used this wave, this tide, this movement of water metaphor, time and time again. I come back to it, and the cycle of language continues on.

I once told Colin that if I were a Pokémon trainer, I’d definitely train fire types. He laughed, and said, No, you’re obsessed with the sea. Water all the way.

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panic poetry

Over the weekend, I had my first “real” panic attack. Nothing like the summer shocks I’d felt years before, when mortality would come to me in the night and strike me with a metal bat. No, this was a slow build, weeks of disgust and anger and fear snowballing into a full-body choke, numbness draped over and into me. I felt phantom pains across my hip, ghosts pummeling the soft skin there while the rest of my body buzzed, falling “asleep” even though I was fully awake, eyelids stretched out to their fullest height and fingers and toes curled and clawed. It was the ugliest I have ever felt, and I cried out in pain over and over again as the feeling was ripped out of my body.

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