This Panic Attack // Me and My Phone

A poem about not being okay

Blerg.

Sharing stuff on the interwebs is hard.

It’s a constant inner conversation: “Are you being creatively courageous?” or “Are you oversharing?” Which details do you share with a spirit of generosity and community and which details do you camouflage with a couple throw pillows and pray that no one ever sees?

For all my talk of supporting mental health and neurodiversity, I don’t often share publicly about my own mental health journey and symptoms. It feels awkward and kind of rude.

You’re dealing with your own stuff. Why should I pile mine on top of yours?

Photo by Julia Elliot on Unsplash

When actually…

If I’ve learned anything in the past 13+ years of writing online, I know that this is not how sharing works. Sharing that is done with a spirit of generosity can be a two-way bridge: an experience where both the writer and reader recognize each other.

This person has experienced this same thing. I’m not a total weird-ass weirdo, alone and afraid. Maybe I’m only a slight weird-ass weirdo, not alone and a little less afraid.

So this is me sharing a little bit about my struggle.

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This Panic Attack - Me and My Phone

This panic attack feels like your ribs have been been sewn on just a little too tight      
     like your lungs are ballooning out the top of the corset made of your own bone  
     like any more pressure and that quivering balloon will burst.

This panic attack feels like the sucker punch of non-support 
     and the raucous angst of Type-A frustration 
     alongside the existential dread of not knowing, neverknowing, where you fit.

This panic attack feels like your hands are shaking so hard they are silent and still. 
     The muscles are simply too scared
                                           or too exhausted to react.

               So you pick up the distraction device 
               (known to most as a phone)
               but the damn panic follows you.

This panic attack feels like looking at your phone and the calendar dates come crashing into you.
     forgetting if you have already put conditioner in your hair because youwere
     toobusyworrying aboutthethings youhavealreadytoldyourself
     youhavenobusinessworryingabout.

This panic attack feels like not wanting to text someone but needing to text someone and having no clue what to say.

     “I’m sure you’re asleep…”

DELETE

     “Hi. U awake?”

DELETE

     “My brain is telling me the everything is falling apart but because I still have  
       internet service and everyone else seems to be asleep, I recognize that the 
       problem is most likely me and not the world at large…”

DELETE DELETE DELETE

This panic attack feels like finally setting your phone on the charger 
     (like a good adult)
and being able to find your headphones
     (like a reasonable teenager)
and pressing play on that movie you’ve seen a hundred times
     (like an unhappy toddler)
and crying in bed
     (like the distressed infant you are)

while you hope that sleep comes before you get the energy to pick up your phone and start the entire cycle again.

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Thank you for being here.