Anxiety

The worst is over now.
I can breathe again.
I don’t longer have the urge to rip off my skin and step out of my own body which suddenly felt way too tight and nothing like me at all.
My skin still itches, especially in the face, but I can take that.
At least I can breathe again.
I open my eyes slowly and there you are, standing right beside me where I left you.
I can see neither bewilderment nor pity in your eyes as you point out that I scratched myself.
I put my hand up to my cheek and can feel blood running down towards my chin. I really did scratch myself. This is new.
I try to turn away embarrassed. I never told you about my anxiety. You weren’t supposed to notice. You are going to think I am a psycho, you … do nothing of those things but put your arm around my shoulder and say: “Whatever that was, I am sure you totally kicked its ass.”

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