Breathe Again.

I gave myself some time to heal. The shitty thing about healing, though, is although there is a recommended--and sometimes ideal minimum--amount of time you hope it will take, healing isn't linear. There is no predisposed, predetermined amount of time assessed for completion. It's just something that happens--or doesn't happen. I've been healing going on four years now from more than 34 years of bullshit. Bullshit I didn't ask for. Bullshit I didn't deserve. Just straight up unfiltered, unadulterated, unrelenting bullshit. 

Have you ever woken up and realized you were choking on air? Even though your lungs are restricted by nothing, in particular, your brain is in panic mode. There isn't anything actually blocking you from breathing, but for whatever reason, you can't remember exactly how to breathe? I have. It's absolutely terrifying. For hours over the last few months I have sat in the same spot, rocking back and forth, willing--pleading with myself--to breathe again. I do not recommend. Breathing is, after all, an involuntary act. We're supposed to be able to do it without even knowing we're doing it. Like how our bodies circulate blood without us having to tell it we need it to circulate blood throughout our bodies. 

More often than not I have been consciously and acutely aware of my breathing--or the lack thereof. On multiple occasions, I have become stressed to the point where I eventually realized I was not actually breathing in that moment. The overt realization that your body is unconsciously defying itself is harrowing. Having to constantly remind yourself that you need to focus, recenter, and allow yourself to calm down is a feat in and of itself, and usually comes with a heavy dose of panic, flashes of red and black before the eyes, and an overwhelming rise in body temperature. In moments like this, I try my best to remind myself that I am safe in spite of my body's belief that I am not, because if I don't it can actually be a matter of life or death. I've never once thought myself to be invincible, but I would be remiss if I didn't admit these unfortunate apparitions bring about the realization that I am, in fact, a mortal being. 

It's like I can see Death knocking at my door, begging me for the opportunity to take one misstep and allow it to carry me away into oblivion. In those moments the tears usually start pouring, if I'm able to at all. It's all too easy to then become overwhelmed with the responsibility of everything I haven't yet prepared my children for in life. I am, after all, all they have, and they have been my reason for being for so very long. Of course, I have my own dreams, aspirations, and desires, but adhering to my responsibility for them has been my priority for a long time. Whether I've achieved that or not to my own standard is still to be determined, but they are safe, warm, loved, alive, and well-fed.