A panic Attack – Short Story

I wrote this after one of the many panic attacks I had during lockdown. I hope you enjoy.

She tried to take a deep breath, only to find it felt like a thousand needles pricking her lungs. Her head felt heavy, eyes droopy, as the sought after high kicked in.
She was in excruciating pain. Not the usual kind of pain, emotional agony. A feeling of hurt so deep it was paralyzing her.

A few tears rolled down her cheeks. They felt warm, almost soothing. She prayed for a few more, but found her eyes had dried.

Her mood switched drastically as the anger dimmed. Something else took over.

She felt tired: physically and emotionally.
She couldn’t even remember what the fight had been about, but a few sentences were looped in her mind.

I can’t take this anymore. You’re too sick.

She couldn’t take it anymore either. Truth be told, she knew she was lying to herself in saying things would get better. Not without help; not without intervention.

She was confused, all she knew is she wanted him to make her feel better and he wasn’t. She needed him to alleviate her pain; instead, he was sitting there watching her.

Another looped thought.

He doesn’t care.

She could feel the anger rising once more as she spouted almost incoherent insults at him. She felt guilty, but she couldn’t stop, almost as if someone else were controlling her mind.

Inside, there were still only pain and suffering, so strong she doubted she would survive it.

Suddenly, she turned quiet. No longer screaming, she stared at the wall in front of her, tears once again forming in her eyes, only this time: there was no relief.

She snapped, attacking him out of impulse and a desire to make him understand what it meant to feel that pain. He easily blocked her and locked her to the floor.

She struggled, trying to get free. She could see the balcony: one small jump and it would all be over. She also knew it wouldn’t happen; her parents were coming and he was too strong for her anyways. It was only a thought, an impulsive one bit with no intent of realization.

She felt trapped: in her house, in her life and in her ever worsening relationship. She was scared, she started sobbing.

Lying on the floor, tears of pure agony flooded the tiles. She couldn’t stop, she barely had the emotional strength to occasionally blow her nose.

Her mother arrived and she started venting. This was healthy.

“I’m a good person mom, I don’t do it on purpose! Why can’t people see that?”

“It’s not fair, why do I have to be sick? I’m in pain!”

Her mother sighed, there were no answers to the questions, especially the latter. Instead of answering, she caressed her hair. Slowly her breathing evened out and, as she felt soothed by the contact, the panic attack started to ease up.

“I know you’re a good person. I can see it”.

She stopped crying. Slowly, her breathing calmed. She didn’t manage to say it but she would have wanted to:

“Thanks mom. I love you”.

Yours sincerely,

Dysfunctional Girl