7 - #SaneSunday My escape from reality

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A/N: What you're about to read is  e x t r e m e l y personal. Hell, not even my family knows, and that's partially because I don't fully understand...whatever this is. Second, my mother already inserts herself so far into my business that it'd be like a field day between a psychologist and a kidnapped victim who's survived by staying mute and penning letters to a fictitious entity (Lol, reference to Pennies by Pepper Winters. 😜 and, now, shamelessly plugging.) ...Meaning, she'd push and push and push me to reveal until there was nothing left for me to surrender. So I'll be damned if she found out this dark secret I hold.

PS. mild foul language...🙊

Most episodes started with an innocent stitch in my side, the kind a person earns after strenuous activity. However, it either fully evolved or vanished in the times I'd been strong enough to command my...whatever this was...to fuck off. But it was getting harder to win, and the worst was when it attacked in a place I couldn't just scurry off and hide. As if riding it out wasn't torturous enough alone.

Slumping against the wall, I leaned my head back while emptiness slithered into my chest. The wicked snake from Eden hissed temptations, urging my being to disconnect from sanity, poisoning my will to climb back to normalcy, to something suitable to the ever judgmental public eye. Shakes encased my body as I fought the demon that latched an iron grip on my soul.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

A hurricane of heat flashes and heart pangs stamped my diaphragm. Acrid nausea crept into my cardboard dry mouth, threatening to turn out my hollowing pit. Stomach bloating like a balloon with far too much gas inside, mine flooded with a gut-vacuuming void. Rivets of cold perspiration leaked from my temples, drooling over my shoulder blades, and heightening my nerve endings as it melded with goosebumps.

No. Don't do this. Not now! Not here! Stop!

Hackles rising, I curled and unclenched my fist like I was throttling a stress ball. My muscles turned taut, vigilant, preparing for a blindsided assault I was in no condition to ward off. Meanwhile, my sight swarmed and spotted, firing off blasts of fireworks that made my skull pulse all over.

I scrambled for a distraction, something that would toss me a lifeline and stop my freaky display. Surrounded by curious strangers who watched as if I were a possessed animal that needed an exorcism or a goddamn chill pill.

Chest constricting, I cradled my heart like my hand was the only force capable of holding it inside. As I clawed at my sternum to fight through vertigo, I groped for something to keep my spine straight. The familiar coil of barbed wire lassoed my lungs, strangling me with each flutter of breath. My heart howled and rapped against my ribcage, a manic prisoner raging within.

Get a freakin' grip, Mel. Come on! Breathe dammit.

Eventually, the noose around my organs would unravel, and I panted in relief that everyone seemed to mind their toddlers or check out items once I gathered my courage to face outward.

Every year I went to this thing called Young Life, and they'd always ask, "What fills your backpack?" Metaphorically. But the question preceded "what distracts you from having a relationship with God?" Despite my not being a highly religious person, that question always stuck.

I don't escape conventionally. Not through writing, reading, illustrating, sleeping, eating, social media, journaling, grades, shopping, athletics, or confiding to others. Nothing. And I've tried every last one of them to the point where I've missed a multitude of silent signs signaling the end to yet another relationship.

And yet, I escape, still. What that was, and how I did it baffled me until one day, after deep introspection, I finally found the answer: For me, escape is defined as "choosing my battles" and devoting time to others so I can forget myself. I thrust my heart and mind into supporting a friend through a difficult time, think about the sassy comebacks I wish I had the guts to deliver, or plan out the next question series for another challenge book to host—anything, something, everything.

It's my modus operandi to bandage sores from hurtful situations underneath my comforter, tuck away that pain in a padlocked collection box, insert "doing well" in my daily vocabulary, and mask frowns in the foreground. I need the escape to better my chances of warding off the dastardly...it  that guts my stomach, asphyxiates my lungs, constricts my chest, and challenges my duty to display a happy, friendly, polite girl that is privileged to live where she is free to express these thoughts.