The first and only time I had a panic attack, it felt like I'd been running away from every bad thing the world contained. I couldn't hold in the tears that rolled down my cheeks, although I wiped away every single drop before each trail got to my chin. I cried like a baby for the first time in a long time and there were no arms wrapped around my shoulders to comfort me. I tried to take in more air to make up for my already shrunken lungs and it only got harder with each second. My chest burned like it'd been doused in flammable liquid and set on fire. I sat atop the toilet seat and cried painfully silent tears. I kept whispering to myself, "You're fine. You're fine", but no matter how much I repeated those words, in that moment I was anything but fine.

I hated that I couldn't react in a different way to what had triggered the panic. I hated that I found myself in a situation where a panic attack was unavoidable. It'd been years of experiencing the exact same thing and I expected it to get easier with time as I got older. It's only getting harder and I am slowly accepting that I never really adapted.

20th July, 2023