Metathesiophobia

Have you ever felt that little drop in your stomach when you’re anxious?

Who am I kidding; of course you have. It can honestly be hard to avoid sometimes. It’s like a reflex, an instinctual sort of thing, I suppose. I mean, it is. Fight or flight and all that, right? It gives you a rush of energy and puts you on edge, and as much as some people adore things like roller coasters and thrill-seeking shenanigans, I've never really liked the little chill and sense of impending doom that lingers within the sensation. That subtle, but nearly tangible, sense of dread often signals immediate, drastic, sometimes unexpected change -- something I can handle in a controlled setting, i.e. an amusement park, but deal with a little less smoothly in the real world.

You see, I have suffered from panic attacks for most of my life, and for me, that dropping feeling is my warning that one is coming on. Even if the only “threat” I’m presented with is forgetting a name, or waiting for someone in a crowd of strangers, my mind takes the seemingly trivial scenario and runs with it, spinning it into any number of possible disasters, and giving me a bit of a reputation at parties... A reputation of not getting invited to them, anyway. You could say it’s made me a bit of a hermit. You could also say that’s an understatement, but hey, maybe you’re more polite than I am, too. Ha. But I digress.

I live with three cats and a dog in a small rental near the edge of town and have for a year or two now. My family’s known the landlord’s family for generations so they couldn't care less how many animals I end up keeping here in the end, thankfully. That being said, I've managed to avoid all the uncertainty and fear of unpredictable interactions with the outside world for a while, outside of work, as if anyone there is worth talking to anyway. Yesterday, feeling particularly relaxed, I was surprised to find myself wanting a change in pace (if only a small one), and after reading an article later in the day about how sleeping with lights on can cause insomnia, a bit of change seemed like it might even help! I’d been sleeping like shit and figured it wouldn't kill me to give it a try.

And hey, before you dwell on that too hard, yes, I am both old enough to live on my own and also have not stopped sleeping with at least one light source until very recently. Ha ha, what a baby, yeah yeah. I've heard it before. I was never really scared, I just hadn't had a good reason to stop until now, that's all. That's what I've always told myself, anyway. Not that inner-me was too hard to convince, given the little “surprise naps” I’d been taking at work lately that my boss (and my eardrums -- ouch) were ever so fond of. I had no reason to think twice when I switched off all my lights, glancing over at a cat at the foot of my bed as I pulled the cord on my lamp, pitching my room into darkness, with the door firmly shut and locked at the other end.

I closed my eyes. The room immediately seemed too warm and I squirmed a little, readjusting myself. I recall struggling to get even remotely comfortable, becoming more and more unsettled each time I opened my eyes to reorient myself only to be greeted with nothing but darkness. I cursed silently as my heart sped up and I began to sweat, when I suddenly felt that dreadful chill down my spine. My stomach dropped like an anvil. I went into an overdrive of my old panic mode, revived after being carefully avoided for so many years, and I opened my eyes wide, trying desperately to see something in the nothingness before me. I also distinctly recall thinking about how pathetic it was that someone my age was panicking this way over sleeping in the dark, before hearing a loud WOOSH-ing noise that, thinking back, sounded a lot like blood rushing to my head. And then… Nothing.

As in, really nothing, perception-wise. I must have passed straight out right after that, because the thought was still fresh in my mind as soon as my eyes opened this morning, and the night had felt like seconds. Another thing that welcomed me as soon as my eyes opened was a torturous pain, whose location took me a minute or two to find in my frantic haze of half-sleep, half-panic. My hand finally brushed over what felt like a large, raised set of wounds or scars of some sort, directly above my right knee. As soon as I touched it, the pain ceased; it was like the fact that I had acknowledged it was all that was needed. I slowly pulled back the covers and turned the light on to investigate, and -- believe me when I say I hate to be cliche -- but… what I saw seriously, honestly, genuinely turned my entire world upside down.

The fear of the unexpected, the panic attacks… The fact that the pure, mortal terror after the drop in my gut seemed to last for hours after the fact. This wasn't possible… This isn't possible, fuck, all those years... Fuck, fuck. I’m rambling. I’m sorry. There were scars on my leg, that I clearly hadn't made or had before, no blood, just scars, just two little tiny words. I checked my nails, fuck, I even checked my fucking cat’s nails, I didn't see blood anywhere... Nothing but two words etched into my skin. Words with a message as clear as day, and an origin as impossible to see as the details of my room had been in the night… Words that have left me questioning my own sanity as much as the reality of the world around me. Just two words.

“NEVER CHANGE”