Panic Attacks

Let's talk about panic attacks. 
When I have one, I feel like there is an elephant on my chest. I feel like one second equals a lifetime and nothing can be done to precipitate this feeling. ' Tap Tap Tap', I thump my feet on ground in attempt to wake it for its support. I look around. Everything is blurry. All sound cease to have their own frequency, pitch or amplitude and I can just hear a buzz. 
I start hyperventilating. I am an alien who cannot respire oxygen. 
I want to conceal myself. I want to hide behind a rock which is ready to roll over me. I dont want the world to know what I am feeling. 
I don't want to ask because even though all is hazy I can visualise their reaction. I can read their mind. All they think is 'again?' 'is she not over that guy?' 'why does she not go for gymming?'. Suddenly their thoughts become the verdict I never needed. I drown in self-loathe. 'Try to walk, girl' . Then I look towards my loved ones and think what they have done to see me go through this. It's very strange that during this time of brain fog I can charge myself with crimes I have not committed.

Yesterday I had terrible panic attacks. I had to go to seek medical help. However it passed away. So anxiety and panic attacks are terrible. But they do pass away. Even though I cannot breathe myself but oxygen somehow finds its way in. I have understood that it's a disorder which can be cured. I am taking required medications. I am working on it. Slowly with time it will go away. 
Slowly with time it will be all clearSlowly with time the knots in my chest will open up

My musings

Today I stumbled upon 
my old musings.
They made me reminisce of my old lover's 
moist purple orchids wrapped in cellophane.
The wilted petals,
made me recount,
what I felt
when I put my head over his shoulder.
When it all started it was coherent.
My poetry was structured and fluent,
with an aabb ryhming scheme.
However it lacked depth.

Then,
It happened all at once.
Oxygen in room became water.
And I a creature without gills.
I started to asphyxiate.
My poems lost their structure.
Unordered sentences
with inaccurate grammar took all room.
Dark blue was my colour
Slowly other colours from the palette mixed.

Then,
I wrote in confessional style.
I became Sylvia Plath
and my heart bragged- 'I am I am I am'.
My Ariel galloped
and I wished to fall on ground.
Then I became numb.
Like I knew-
the lover was about to leave me.
I started writing short poems.
because tragedy and silence have same address.

Then,
I became turbulent.
I wanted to kill everyone
because this world seemed a cell.
And I a prisoner who has committed crime.
I had committed crime against myself.
I was the last person I wanted to forgive.
I stood on road naked,
indifferent of a car heading towards me.

Then,
the person whom I wanted to murder
became me.
As I reckoned,
We call it a disaster
when there is someone to experience it.
Otherwise its just a natural event.
So I thought of killing myself.
Every piece was a brilliant suicide letter.
Like the one from 'Dear Daddy' 
and I was Robin Williams.
I could write letters for planned murders.





















As I wrote these letters with blank ink
and inhaled darkness
I witnessed a change,
I forgot to write,
I forgot to record.
Days passed by... And today I read my old musings.
So I pick a feather, 
and scribble unknowingly about recovery
Light hits at every angle
and now I make sure to tilt my head.
I, who was a convicted criminal
is now deemed free,
uncharged with all crimes,
my poetry is now free,
however wise.

What healing looks like

Before going through recovery, I pictured healing as a beautiful and comforting process in which day starts with expensive bathing products and a nice warm shower. And as day progresses the victim catches sunshine and stores in his heart. At night he guides himself using this stored light.
However, as I went through the darkest period of my life. I learnt a few things-
i. Healing is the most traumatic process. Imagine you are tied with chains and cuff and locked in a room. You are getting suffocated. The most painful process however is battling with cuffs and chains and you might bleed in process. 
ii. There will be days when you don't want to wake up and weeks when you don't bathe. However you will stop abhorring yourself for this and understand that repulsion towards basic human activities is natural. 
iii. The most difficult part of healing is that you need to change your bandages and there will be time when your skin will be exposed to bacteria. 
That is , in process of building up your watch-tower you will be left unguarded and attacked by past trauma. And that is okay. Remember you are a bit stronger than before.
Today or tomorrow or next week you will fight it. 
iv. Things don't change overnight. Everything is ephemeral , this thought slowly starts growing on you and you become a balanced person
v. So healing is facing the darkest side of yours and breaking free from chains. You might have indelible scars on you after recovery.vi. However once you have completely healed these scars will be your guiding signs.

Gardner and chrysanths

I was listening to random songs. The lyrics reminded me of the empty alley I never meandered on. Catching setting Sun, like it is a fireball and my hand an inflammable appendage.
However when Moon came it reminded me of you. How it creates high and low tides, waves in my heart which are inundated by emotions, emotions so dramatic like I am a boat stuck in a tempest. And the eye of this squall? It is you. *Song changed*
I am now thinking about old, vintage radio which I don't own and an American lifestyle which I don't follow. But the setting is mesmerising.We running hand in hand till you kiss my cheeks and stand on your knees and confess what you feel. 
My imagination is painted and splattered with images and memories of us which never eventuated.
And you a gardener taking care of chrysanths . You will pluck it and water it. 
Don't water the dead flowers they say. 
But I will probably live for few seconds on your soft hands rather than a field without you.

Gravestone

I will ornate the gravestone and come out of
the graveyard of our dead love,
the love that wasn't meant to be.
It was a bastard 
with cute little hands 
and real eyes.
It was a little baby,
I wanted him to grow,
brave adversities,
go to beaches,
build sandcastles 
and watch them getting destroyed
by huge waves that batter the shore.
But people started talking,
I killed my bastard.
Now I have puffy eyes,
I ornate myself and go out.

#METOO

This is a story,
No these are facts, some feelings which I never vented.
How you talk about Oprah Winfrey who was raped in her childhood
Like she is an inspiration
No, my dear, it's a matter of pity. How small girls are molested and how
I was molested.' Oh, get over it. You have been touched many times since then'.
Oh, mind stop. Stop being your own enemy. Stop telling me Robin Williams committed suicide.
Since then, I too anticipated my death. My suicide letter will look like an apology, would it? Or a testimony against the world? I don't know.

So I grew up in different cities. Each had their own skyline and a different story woven so intricately. I felt like a refugee seeking shelter; never accepted by the natives
I stopped sleeping. Insomnia happens to great writers, they said. So I think about Virginia Woolf who died by drowning herself in water with stones in her pocket.
I have gulped down those stones. They weigh me down from speaking up.

Murphy's law

What are you afraid of? 
A heartbreak? 
That our hearts will be crushed
Into fine pieces and some parts
Maybe will get lost
In hustle
What do you fear? 
I will get too close 
And see your demons
You will see mine 
They might sign a treaty
Thus no we wont be able to save ourselves from havoc
Or they might call a truce
There are a million negative possibilities 
Murphy's law is important
And so are our hearts
So decide 
Let your heart decide