Panic is terrible. Your heart beats out of your chest. Your mind becomes nothing but a spiral of the same couple of words. You feel like you can't breathe. You are so afraid.
Just calling up the memory of an attack is physically unpleasant. This is the first time I've ever called what I'm describing an attack.
Your heart beats out of your chest. Your mind becomes nothing but a spiral of the same couple of words. You feel like you can't breathe. You are so afraid.
We were visiting my brother- and sister-in-law.
At some point in the early day I sat at a desk or table on the first floor while the rest of the house was upstairs. I was spending some time alone reading the Bible, meditating on it, and praying. In the back of my mind I wondered if the kid who went outside sometime earlier had come back in without my noticing. "Of course he did," I said to myself. "No one said he was missing. His parents would notice if he wasn't here." As I sat I ignored the thought, but the fear continued to creep in. I was deliberately quiet, hoping no one noticed I was even downstairs.
As I sat quietly, someone approached the door. I waited. Hoping. He tried to turn the knob, but the door was locked. I waited. Hoping.
Someone come downstairs. Someone open the door. There was knocking I think. It was taking too long. They knew I was there. My heart beat fast. Fear. Panic.
This isn't my house. I can't open the door. I have to open the door. They're expecting me to open the door. They know I'm down here. I can't open the door. This isn't my house. I can't open the door I have to open the door I have to open it I can't, this isn't my house. knocking. crying. scared. child. It's not my house. GET UP.
I calmly stand up, walk to the door, and open it, go back to the desk and continue to read.