Unsafe

Laying in pain. Your chest feeling like your heart has knives trying to break out from under your skin. Shaky hands. Cold sweat running down your body. You watch as the world continues to move around you in fast motion but you seem to be going at a snails pace. You hear the world but you seem to space and everything is delayed. A headache with piercing pain comes slowly but quickly at the same time. A feeling of nauseousness with every movement you take. You keep telling yourself to not fall into your feelings and keep going, but the reality is that you don’t understand how you got here in the first place. That thought scares you even more. The reality that you have no control over what your body is doing, but knowing you need it to stop. A few days ago, I experienced this all too familiar pain. I had recognized it but didn’t fully understand it. Silent Panic Attacks.

I used to lay under my weighted blanket when I would feel this feeling coming on at home, but then that same blanket was used to smother me and I never felt comfortable with that idea again. Something about restricting my body and calming my nerves no longer felt safe. Laying down, closing my eyes and taking deep breathes feels like I am waiting to be attacked while trying to gain ground in healing. It creates a stronger feeling of anxiousness. It triggers memories of being hurt while laying down in my bedroom. His head slamming into my back multiple times. That night, I was alarmed from a state of relaxation to realize that I was now in immediate survival mode when he walked into our room. I was almost asleep when I had to tighten up my body to brace myself for the head blows to my back. Nothing feels safe while I am zoned and surrounded by memories of the past.

Walking or crawling to the restroom to allow the emotions to come screaming out through an acidic and burning taste from my mouth. My head swirling in pain with every movement of my body. Laying down on a dirty bathroom floor trying to gain some ground and feeling the cold tiles on my back. Nothing. Sitting up and finding the strength to get to a sink or bathtub and drowning my head in freezing cold water. Trying to cool my body and make myself uncomfortable so I can be comfortable. A feeling I am no stranger to knowing.

Tears fighting to come out as I hold my breath to keep them in with no such luck. The pain grows, the panic inside is excruciating. Pull it together. Knowing that my children are outside asking me questions. Mom can we play Roblox? Mom can we have a game night? Mom can we have movie night tonight? The more questions, the more I zone into a dark tunnel trying to hold it together in a dark bathroom with water dripping from my head. I mummer something to solve their questions and wait for them to walk away. Mustering every last bit of strength that I have, I come out of the bathroom and walk to my bed. Each step feeling like a punch to the stomach and a dull carving knife piercing through my skull over and over again. Right foot. Slice. Left foot. Slice. Eighteen steps. Each one more painful than the last. When I finally reach my bed and crawl into it slowly, I often beg God silently to make the pain go away. I want it to stop. I need it to stop. Sometimes I am able to muster up the words, “momma has a headache. Please stay quiet.” My kids have become accustomed to this and one of them will bring an ice pack to put on the back of my neck and a cold water to hold in my hand. Times where the words are frozen inside, the panic continues to build quietly and painfully. Eventually, my kids seem to come in and they recognize the signs. They will go into action and grab an ice pack and water bottle.

Thursday, this feeling built up in therapy. A safe place for my kids and I became a confusing one in that moment. No matter what I couldn’t seem to keep the unwanted flashing memories from burning back into my brain. Memories I had talked about but never heard others speak the words. Realizing that I was not alone in my pain, but also knowing that I was terrified with what was happening to my body. Not being able to suppress it, but still trying to stay present in the world around me. My children watching me as a lay on the ground talking but not able to control it. Not even sure if the words that I was saying were making sense or actually coming out of my mouth. The tunnel darkening but disappearing as I tried to fight off this unwanted feeling. Unsafe. Trying to stay calm for them while my hands trembled and my body began shutting down. Going across the hall to lay on a bathroom floor alone in the dark where other men and women have sat on a toilet and walked on the floor with dirty shoes from who knows where. An uncomfortable feeling braced in panic. Getting nauseous. Ready to throw up. Holding my hands in the cold water, but nothing seems to be working and the length of time that I am gone makes me more stressed as I worry about not showing face. Not showing my children that something is wrong and mom can’t control it. My body and my brain are at war. My stomach in knots. My head on fire. The cold sweat burning my skin. Images flashing but I am stuck watching them like a deer in headlights. I can see the world around me but I am struggling to interact with it. I find the strength to go back and forth between the two rooms a few times, but eventually I stop in the therapy room, lay on the floor and continue to attempt to reenter myself into reality but struggling with every word that comes out of my body and those of the people around me. Finally, therapy comes to an end, but I am still stuck on the floor in pain. My kids leave the room for a bit while we try to work through what is happening. Ice. I was handed ice. I placed it in the back of my bra where my shoulders are. By this point, I am overwhelmed. My body is shutting down and I am exhausted. Freezing cold water drips from the bag and lands on my side. A sharp pain and shock race through my veins. It is a good pain. Drip, Drip, Drip. Slow at first but quickening its pace as time continues on. Talking. Words of distraction. A new conversation. Drip, Drip, Drip. Burning pain of relief. Eventually, I sit up. Drip, Drip, Drip. By now my back is drenched but I am regaining my ground. Eventually, I am able to stand up and exist in the pain that is now dim but still a reminder. Relief. I worked through it.

I look down and realize, we are late. A basketball game at 5:30p.m. and my daughter was supposed to be there at 5:10p.m. Drop off with their dad is at 5p.m. It is after 4:30p.m. and a 45 minute drive. Panic starts to rise again. I admit that my head is killing me and my kids say the same. Their stomachs hurt too, but they think it is from the lunch we ate. I start to feel like a failure and my chest feels heavy. My son reaches over, holds my hand and says that today was a good day. My daughter agrees. I smile and realize they are right. Today was a good day.

Today was a good day.

Please feel free to comment and share your story. While I am sharing my story, I am learning that staying silent is a curse and burden. If you have a story you want to share, please feel free to share it and know that there will be no judgement or cruelty from myself or others on this page as you do so. This page is for healing and not harming.