Gripping on to the steering wheel, one that became nothing but a slippery sweat covered nightmare; navigating the road ahead with nothing but a prayer.

It hit.

Never in my life had I called 911. On this day, that all changed. I pulled over into a shopping center’s parking lot. My heart pounding so loud that it carried a numbing echo throughout my body.

“Bolts! It’s like bolts! My hands! My hands!”

I remember saying that, over and over again. Almost as if I were some program experiencing a malfunction and simply laid there awaiting someone, anyone, to reboot me. This was new. I’ve had countless attacks, but this feeling of my hands being repeatedly electrocuted… this, this was the worst. Convulsions came and to my surprise, became the only comforting thing in this whole mess. Familiarity, even in the most frightful sense, felt like my body’s way of letting me know that I have faced these attacks before and if I survived time and time again, I am sure to do it once more.

“I am having an attack. My heart hurts! My heart hurts so bad! I am pulled over; please send help. Please!”

Dispatcher was on the phone, and my head was in between my legs. Even though I knew this was an anxiety attack, I was questioning my survival.

Questioning my sanity. Questioning my symptoms. Questioning my strength.

Trying to listen, trying to soothe; trying to simply breathe. For those with crippling anxiety have come to understand what detachment truly feels like. Loosing any ounce of control you had, and throwing your mercy at the judgment of those around you.

I did not ask to be this way. I did not want to be this way.

I do not want you to be this way.

Approaching ten years of my chest tightening to the point where inhaling the air around me becomes a chore. Ten years of stares, laughs, and ridicule. Ten years of battling my own mind and body.

Ten. Years.

You know what? I have not seen the lights reflecting off supposedly sterile walls in about two of those years. I have not had an attack throw me to the floor, either. Anxiety has not ridden itself of me completely; I am still its prisoner. These days, I have a window in my cell. I see the different shades of green amongst the grass. I watch the sun send its rays to the flowers below, and I am now witnessing their growth. For a while, I let depression get the best of me. Hiding my window, the one that I worked vigorously for. A solid black curtain of fear, doubt, and paranoia. Blending effortlessly into these walls, I forgot what was there. I failed to remember the gift I gave myself.

Grass. Sun. Flowers.

Life.

They never left me, but rather I left them.

I pulled my curtain back a little while ago. I wanted my window.

A small step is a step at that.

I was out with friends the other day, and for some reason it made me remember telling a friend how alone and miserable I was about two years back. They knew that wasn’t me. They knew about my curtain.

Seeing that person again that night, I thought to myself… I wonder if they see my smile now. I wonder if anyone can notice that I have a new view.

It may not be a door, and I may not be outside quite yet.

However, it is a window.

I have learned that you cannot allow yourself to discredit that.

Happiness is finding me, and what a gift that is. Arriving in a small, and allotted amount of time, but I am grateful that it is arriving at all.

That window is small too, and look how much of a difference it has already made.

Pull back your curtain and feel the warmth of the window with your hand.

Until next time,

Lo.