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the trigger

just stop scratching

if only it were that easy

how much anti-itch cream, lotion, moisturizer, aquaphor do i have to fucking use?

better to rub than to scratch, god dammit

i can’t breathe

just breathe, god dammit

i can’t breathe

for christ’s sake, breathe already

i ripped the skin off my arm. there’s scabs and marks and scars and blotches all over

serves me right

i hate panic attacks, but i almost can’t imagine what my life would be like without them. not in a bad way, but in an optimistic way. how else would i know my triggers? how else would i be able to feel my way through what’s causing me to feel so uncertain, disempowered, and nervous?

well, what was it tonight?

tonight we had a big(ish) dinner. my immediate family, plus three of my brother’s friends. initially, i was excited. i mean, we were having endless rounds of lamb, steak, olives, plantains, and polenta. Fogo De Chao has been a tried and true childhood favorite of the Teano family.

but tonight felt different.

i haven’t seen my (older) brother in a while. and, being the youngest, a part of me wants to show off my best sides (and hide my ugly ones). i realized this when i found myself working out last night when i had no desire to. my body didn’t require movement; my muscles didn’t need any reminder of how strong they already were; but there was an alarm within me that kept buzzing and alerting me

do more.

you need to impress people.

you cannot just be who you are.

you want a Grade A recipe for a panic attack? mix deeply rooted shame and insecurity with the active stress of needing to hide parts of yourself with the added pressure of being in a fancy restaurant.

so getting ready, i simply couldn’t.

my body itched. my skin flared. my inner child revolted.

i can’t go.

i have to, though. let’s try a different outfit; maybe i’m itchy because of the fabric of the shirt i was wearing.

didn’t work.

this went on for a brutal 60 minutes, and i finally conceded to my anxiety. my dad walked into the room, informing me it was time for us to leave, and that’s when i had to break the news.

i can’t go. no, it’s not an allergic reaction. i just don’t feel well. i’m anxious. no, i don’t know why. i don’t know what’s bothering me. i just can’t go.

then i called my mom, and the conversation sounded the exact same.

i’m not going. i’m anxious. i tried. and it’s just not happening. i’ll figure out dinner when i’m hungry.

but the conversation with my mom was different; she went from wait, you’re uprooting my plans? to my dear child, are you okay? I’ll pray for you real quick.

and that turn of the script made all the difference.

you see what triggers my anxiety is the feeling of needing to put on a show. like i have to perform my personality. like i have to act like everything is okay when it feels like my entire world is peeling apart.

it makes me feel unsafe, unloved, unseen, unprotected.

after talking to my mom, i realized, i don’t have to play a character. i don’t have to put on a show. if someone asks me how i’m doing, i can honestly and openly express my inner struggles with anxiety.

if i need to show off my scratched up forearms, i will.

i’m done pretending.

and oh, dinner was fantastic. i felt extremely present with the delicious, savory grilled food i was eating.

i’m not kidding when i tell you: i remember every bite.

i also didn’t force conversation. i didn’t try to make myself seem like i was in a better place than i actually was. i know i could’ve been more social and interactive, but my cup wasn’t full enough.

and who knows, maybe there cups weren’t full enough, either.

thank god for tonight’s episode. for the realization that i take on the pressure to live out a mental script that’s inauthentic and straight up fake. thank god for the opportunity to allow my parents to go off-script, too. while panicking is no fun, truly, life isn’t so much about what happens to you, but how you respond to whatever comes your way.

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