500 Words Per Day – Day 8

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500 words for When I was Scared


There seems to be nothing more pressing on my mind to share than a time (or rather many times) where there is not a definite explanation/reason to be scared. I can’t see around what I’m deciding to write about for another story and I’m guessing this means I must answer the call. Rip the band-aid off!


Turning my light out above my bed and believing sleep may find me rather quickly tonight, I settle in to fall asleep. My body has other things in mind for me. A ghost of a feeling strikes my chest and before my hands, which would be useless in any case, can reach out to slap it away I am overcome. I am taunt with it, the fear, the rush of adrenaline that accompanies it as a best friend, a common threat. My fighting only results in trimmers cropping up in my hands or legs, or in a rocking motion to capture control of my functions. Powerless.


Thoughts barraging me further incapable, throwing their stones to see which one will sting the most. The next may cut so closely as to wrench from me a sob, a pitiful mewling sound that makes me happy for half seconds I’m alone and no one can hear me. I’m structured, wired, to want to be in control. There is nothing controlled. There is no explanation or even if there were it might not be enough to make sense to anyone what could cause so much fear. What could make the fight or flight response cripple you beyond recognition of self. I am scared and reason or not, I am unable to tell you at this moment why fear has the reigns.


This is anxiety. This is something I don’t talk about often with anyone. When I do tell someone I don’t describe it. It would sound odd to many to describe being so afraid of nothing that you begin babbling because you have lost sense of things for the minutes. The babbling can staunch the thoughts in a messy ill equipped fashion, in other words it won’t last. I suppose that is one of its graces, minutes rather than hours. Of course the corrupt heady feeling of one lurking around the corner isn’t minutes, it is every damn day.


This attack is a creature that easily puts other instances of fear in the foreground. It is why I couldn’t think of another story to share and again why I thought about skipping tonight. Please don’t congratulate me for writing this, because as a part of the “waiting anxiety” I will deal with the repercussions of being honest and open in such a raw way. Honesty can trigger terrible episodes for me. My memory is never so wonderfully horrific as when it is falsely recounting to me a point in my day I was foolish for something that no one else would think twice about. This my way of sharing the risk involved in these bouts of openness.


Anxiety can have an explanation, far too many, or it can have not even a whisper to lend wisdom to the situation. I am often stuck wondering which one is the better.


How do you run from a tiger out for your blood, when there is no tiger?


I have a board on Pinterest I attempt to smoother the fears in me, or at the very least remind me I’m not alone in the panic. One such pin says this:


I think too much.
I think ahead.
I think behind.
I think sideways.
I think it all.
If it exists, I’ve fucking thought of it.


That is where it starts, but I would add…if doesn’t exist I will find it and therein lies the lies I am terrifically dreadful at telling myself. I am the fabricator of my own fear. I am the story that scares me.


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