Fandom Explosion

I’ve forgotten what it’s like to breathe.

 That’s not because plants try to kill me every fall, leaving me scrambling for my little red inhaler in the depths of my bottomless bag.

It’s not because I have this annoying habit of laughing until I’m incapable of moving, wheezing and crying in my seat.

It’s not because of exhilaration and excitement as I lean forward in my plane seat to gaze out over the unknown lands and people down below.

Or even because of the giddiness of meeting someone new and beautiful and oh so interesting.

 No, I’ve forgotten how to breathe because for some reason my mind has decided it is a foreman with an invisible vice and instead of pinning wood in its jaws, it pins my chest.

As my mind runs circles and my heart tells me to go and do and be, I feel the slow turning of the handle at my back, the pressure and pain that makes me stand still…immobile.

There’s that voice inside of me telling me what I should do, what I should want;

It tells me to live and smile and enjoy, to sit outside and take in the beauty of the day, to take a deep breath and smell my perfect macchiato made by that beautiful boy behind the counter, but I can’t.

I breathe out in preparation for that deep breath of relaxation and life and what should be, but that little give in my ribs lets my mind spin the handle one more time and suddenly I have no air.

 I am left gasping and straining and my mind begins to tease and taunt. Why should you relax? Why should you enjoy anything? What have you done to deserve any pleasure at all? What about all of those deadlines you are ignoring? What about that question you completely misunderstood? What about that single cup in your sink? What about that beautiful person that smiled at you on the bus and you just stuck your nose right back into your damn book? You’re a hot mess and you know it, so why should you enjoy this dumpster fire of a life?

 I had a therapist once. She always smiled and listened, and tried to tell me how to make the vice loosen, tried to give me the key to unlocking the handle that cinches it closed on my back.

“You’re just overthinking things, Zee.”

“If you let go of some things you could focus on other things.”

“Why don’t you just make a list? Rank what’s important. Organize. You’re smart. You can figure this out.”

 But I can’t figure this out when every spin of the handle takes a little more air out of my lungs and I feel like I’m suffocating, like I’m drowning. And have you ever tried to be organized or logical when you are drowning? There’s a moment when your brain shuts down, when all of the schooling and logic and intelligence you may claim to have goes flying out the window and you are left gasping and scrambling, and trying to do anything to survive. It doesn’t matter how smart you are, when you are drowning you are just the same as every other person, just an animal trying to live.

 I see a shadow on the counter in front of me and look up to see that beautiful boy who made my macchiato.

“Are you alright?”

 The question makes me want to laugh, but how do you laugh when you have nothing in your lungs to give? I look back down at the coffee cup, see that carefully drawn foam art trembling as I grip that mug so tightly that I’m more certain it’s made of steel than glass.