I wake up. It’s hard to move. They don’t understand how I can sleep for hours and still be exhausted. I can’t get myself out of bed.
Everything seems so much harder today. Showering, washing my hair. It all seems impossible. I finally manage to get myself dressed, but I’m stuck. I can’t leave the apartment. I’m scared to leave the apartment. I call my mom, but she’s busy. I need help. I feel it growing. I’m freaking out. Breathe Stephany breathe. You do this every day, just put on your coat. Walk out the door. Go to work. That’s it.
You can do it, I cheer myself on. It hits me again on the train, I start crying. I can’t control it. I am afraid. I keep my eyes low so people don’t see me. A woman hands me a tissue, her kindness makes me cry more. Calm down, you’re ok. You’re ok, I repeat to myself. Am I?
This is nothing I haven’t done before. Why is it so stressful? Why am I freaking out. I want to talk to someone, to distract me. I don’t want to think anymore. I try to read my book and just when I think I’ve beat my anxiety, she slaps me in the face and my tears continue. I get off the train, sit on the platform.
My mom calls me back, this time she can hear I was crying and she freaks out. She knows her daughter is suicidal and the last time she called her crying was after her previous attempt. I feel guilty for making her worry.
Reassuring her that I’m ok, just having a panic attack. I ask her to talk about something else and slowly my breathe levels out. The world doesn’t seem so scary anymore.
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Stephany, 29, is just trying to live.
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