Breathe.

Breathe, Erin.
Oh, the trauma.

​

Just focus.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.

​

But panic. Attack. Fear.
Heavy sensations are setting in.

​

Chills. Trembles. Nausea. Pressure. Heart racing. Dizziness.
Shortness of breath. Paralyzing physical pain. Debilitating mental

stresses.

​

I am fighting, but losing.
Caving. Imploding. Going under.
All is worsening, as are my tears, my anxiety, my numb limbs.

​

Still I hear my meditations, my teachers, my therapists, my books.
Concentrate on the movement of your belly.
Take oxygen in through your nose.
Release from your mouth.
Again.
Let thoughts come, let them go.
Quiet the mind.
Calm the body.
Breathe, Erin.

​

I try to close my eyes. All intensifies.
I open and begin writing.
Ah, I can breathe again.
Just barely.
I continue with deep breathing techniques.
Shuttering.
Hurting.

​

What happened?
To the progress I was making?
The skills I was learning?
The tools I was gaining?
The hope I was feeling?
Why does nothing work now?
What do I do?

​

No one is awake.
I shouldn’t be awake.
But I can’t sleep.
I haven’t slept.
Not one wink.
New tooth pain.
Persistent mouth pain.
Brain pain, or something like that.

​

It’s 5.39 am.
And I am deep in whatever this is.
Triggered by an image that popped up.
An unrelated google search.
The face of a facial trauma victim.
One face.
Not even a photograph.
A sketch from which I immediately averted my eyes.
I closed the window in an instant.
Yet that was already enough apparently.
For my psyche, my nervous system, my mind.
All reeling from trauma.
Fragile to a point I don’t recognize.
I don’t understand.
But I am caught in its grip.
This downward spiral.
I want out.

​

So I tell myself to breathe.
Breathe, Erin.
Breathe.
BREATHE.
Nothing.

​

My body can’t control alt delete trauma.