When Reality Folds In On Itself
And Authenticity Burns Away the Facade
Condensation drizzles down the glass on the table beside me, similar to the thoughts trying to drip from my being while the cat attempts to sit on my keyboard. She meowed until she lost her voice when I came in the front door with my luggage yesterday — luggage in the form of a suitcase, as well as the thoughts and emotions packed into my soul. But I knew this would happen before I left. That reality was going to fold in on itself in a coals-to-diamonds kind of pressure.
My panic attack had a panic attack as I combed through the apartment for the dozenth time, making sure everything was unplugged, that the lights were off, the cat’s food and water bowls were filled. I had a friend coming to check on her every day, but I still put out four sets of food and water, just in case.
I texted my daughter from the Uber, telling her I was on my way to the airport.
“This early?” She laughed.
I know myself. I know my anxiety disorder. I know my PTSD and bipolar ways. What if I needed to go back home for some reason? What if there was a problem with checking my bag? What if I had trouble getting my titanium leg implant through the metal detector? What if I got lost trying to find my gate? What if I get triggered?
