*Gentle Warning:There is an expletive in this poem. Its contents describe a panic attack.
panikattack
in Ikea. my body undoing in the doing of buying, in the doing of being daughter-side, too many people, too many things, too much ‘this is how to live in spaces with things’, the lights daggering, my eyes double-visioning, lost in the maze of ‘living room’, beds like puddles that drown, cutlery as weapons, fake plants snaking toward my tightening skin, my systems at war with my surroundings: where is the bathroom? can’t read the signs, green lights point to emergency exits, i am an emergency exit, sweat, sweat, sweat, STOP, close eyes, short, quick breaths, squeeze, don’t look at me, don’t look at me, do not shit yourself, do not shit yourself, wait, wait, will my body to move again, find the bathroom, release, text daughter: i’m so sorry. i’m so ashamed. my insides at war with my will, will this ever end? i can’t push the cart. six more times, panic-running to the bathroom, how is there anything left inside me? heartbeats telling me to not die, i don’t have to die, i don’t want to die here. leg muscles straw, kneecaps bowl-ing, i’m sorry daughter voice cotton-ed, caution-crushed. self-check-out, where the fuck are all the humans? dad’s account code? spend money to save money…wait, what? parts of me in the toilets. parts of me dragging behind, outside my body, terrified. lights wreck my brain. punch in the pin. pack my weakness in the trunk. drive home, setting sun burning what’s left of me. when night falls it lands in my throat. daughter takes the wheel. tears push out my eyes emotionless, without permission, grieving my sight. i close. another attack i could not escape. another death, puny but real. thank you daughter, i press my palm on her thigh.
I wanted to share my experience, friends. Also to release it from my body in writing. It’s taken me three days to physically recover from this one. It’s not the first panic attack I’ve experienced. My immune system is weak, and my nervous system is more difficult to…control/be with when this happens. Sometimes, my body can’t handle be-ing…I continue to learn about my body, to practice loving the systems I’m trying to understand. Poetry helps. Writing in my journal helps. Medical and holistic practitioners help. Sleep is a healer I adore. And so…I move through another body-bound experience…
VANESSA SHIELDS 