She woke up with that same sense of fear in the pit of her stomach.
For the past three days she’d woken up earlier than usual, always afraid. The next thing she knew her body would be in a panic, crying and shaking, hardly able to breathe until she took something, anything, to make herself fall back asleep.
She wasn’t a stranger to panic.
This time though, she felt like she was thirteen years old again as another wave of panic washed over her refusing to release her. The rational part of her mind told her she’d be fine, to just ride the wave, but an overwhelming part of her could only think one thing: Why won’t it stop?
It would stop eventually, it always did, but that lingering fear remained with her throughout the day no matter how many pills she swallowed.
She got through each day, functioning, able to do day to day tasks, and even laugh. But it was those mornings she feared when she laid her head on her pillow each night. The mornings where she’d have to calm herself and start the process all over again.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t how it used to be.