It starts with a heartbeat, for me. It’s quicker and yet heavier than what feels like normal, or at least as normal as life gets for me. It feels like I’ve just run up an escalator, or as if I’ve been doing jumping jacks after drinking three cups of coffee—but I’ve been sitting still in class for the last ten minutes. I’m immediately afraid. I am so afraid that my whole body bows to my mind, and I am its prisoner.
I always notice the trembling next. My hands are shaking so hard that I can barely type out my notes, that if I hold them out in front of my face I see them dancing like they’re practicing their shimmying technique in the freezing cold air, even though this classroom feels warmer and warmer by the second. I have a fever, don’t I? I think to myself, even though I’ve been through this drill a million times. But somehow, each time I’m left feeling about as prepared as the first time this happened.
There’s a distinct pounding in my chest and my head, while my stomach trains for the next Olympics by flip-flopping its contents to the point where I feel sick and dizzy. The door to the classroom beckons, my heart thundering in my chest to get out of here, get out before it’s too late, but I can’t leave. My legs are twitching but they remain glued to the floor.
A cough slips out of my mouth. Just a small cough, but it’s more like a disguised gasp-gulp for air. I’m directly forcing my body with all of my strength NOT to hyperventilate, not to choke on the air that pricks my skin. It genuinely feels like I’m not breathing. There’s an actual belief, right there in my mind, that no air is entering my lungs. This thought occurs precisely because that’s exactly how it feels. I’m distinctly not-breathing. My lip trembles, I fight back the urge to gag on each not-breath or run far, far from here—because naturally this entire ordeal is happening during a class that I love.
It always happens at the most inconvenient times. The mall, when I’m waiting in line for the dressing room. The dining hall, when I’m eating with my friends and therefore must pretend everything is fine. My own dorm room, when I’m trying to go to sleep. It’s always inconvenient, always terrifying. I should be used to it after two years, but I’m not.
And then, I lose my sense of control.
It feels like I’m losing control of my body. Like I’m watching myself performing, playing the role of “me” in a play. I’m not really here, my mind whispers. This is only a dream, just a dream. And I know in my heart of hearts that this can’t be a dream, that this is reality in all its ugly realness. But somehow I still kind of feel like I’m floating through a clouded version of the real world. Everything feels numb, slightly out of reach. Everything but the beating and the trembling and the pounding and the flip-flopping and the twitching and the not-breathing
But then it ends. Not all at once, no, it’s a gradual realization that my breathing is real and that the pain and fear are slowly diminishing and I am okay. Reality settles in my mind and I am okay. I acknowledge the situation and move on, just like I always do and always will. The feeling of being okay and back in control comforts my tired body. Class is still going on, and I am still here, still fighting.
