By Izzy Smith
CN: PTSD, flashbacks
You may not think, now, about your physical reactions, too overwhelmed by emotion, desperate, guilty, sad, powerless, lost, terrified, absolutely fucking terrified. Who thinks about breathing when their mind is drowning? Who even remembers what they said, how they held themselves, how they breathed, if they cried, at the moment when their world crumbled and trickled through their desperate, coaxing fingertips, life and death on their shoulders but teetering backwards out of their control.
You’ll remember in time, though, tipping backwards again, everything falling apart again, as, in safety, you feel your mouth contort once more into a silent scream, the cold of a night two months ago leeching into your bones. How to believe in the reality of the present as you sit in the comfort of your own room, feet planted firmly on the floor, feeling your breathing stop entirely from the fear, every muscle clamped, eyes flooding. How to believe the evidence your eyes (fervidly travelling, naming every object in this room) will give to back up your rational mind – it’s not real it’s not real as you feel your own tongue, unbidden, begging against the past that has become your present.
If only this were all in your head.