justaoifethings

I couldn't breathe. My chest jumped with forced half heaves, the air trying to scramble into my lungs, my lungs refusing. I just couldn't goddamn breathe. The tears flowed, I wasn't conscious of them for a while, until the fragile skin under my eyes started to sting with the sudden overdose of salt. I couldn't breathe, but I could stand and wring my fingers through my hair, trying to explain why I was panicking to a concerned teacher through chaotic breathes, barely able to speak. I couldn't breathe as I tried to smile at my newly found friends who looked at me both concerned and confused, unsure of what to do or say, whether to stay or go. I couldn't breathe as I was so utterly dissapointed at the fact that I hadn't had a panic attack in school all year, but I was having the worst panic attack I'd ever had at that moment. I couldn't fucking breathe because a teacher, a male over six foot, decided to completely lose the plot at me, telling me ...

The photo I have attached to this blog is what I'm afraid of reverting back to. Nothing particularly major was happening to make me feel that way, but I felt as if I was falling apart. I was so anxious. I was so frightened. But, honestly, I can't remember why I was feeling that way. Maybe it's a lesson that the things I worry about aren't that important. Or maybe it was just my anxiety acting up. It's a place I don't want to fall back into. To feel that way is awful. I remember mentally begging for help and just wanting to go home. I was only sitting in class. No exams were happening, no one was angry, I was perfectly safe. But I felt in immediate danger, evidently. To so irrationaly break down is something that terrifies me, and this fear is heightened by the fact I've done so many times before. It's not always easy to crawl back into reality. I worry about this often, which is obviously counterproductive. So why do it, you ask? I simply can'...