Sometimes, when I find myself in places throughout this city where I used to stick needles into my arms, I start to get some extreme anxiety (as you can probably already imagine). All of the blood inside my body seems to rush to my head, my skin gets a really ugly shade of white, and my stomach starts to lurch. Not only that, but I feel as if someone is putting their big ugly hands around my throat and squeezing as hard as they possibly can. That’s what anxiety feels like to me, anyways. A more theatrical version of it though, I guess. It’s horrible.
Anyways, I was driving down this road and all of the buildings that were scattered beside it brought back memories of a life that I wish I could just forget. Vivid and horrible things that I had done started to rush like waves of guilt into my brain and I was completely consumed by it. It terrified me. Those big ugly hands started to squeeze tighter and tighter until I felt like I couldn’t breathe at all. I pulled my beige 2003 Saturn over to the side of the road, looked into the overhead mirror and kept telling myself what I always tell myself when it gets that bad. “If you can talk, you can breathe.” And then, of course, I started babbling out random things just to make sure I could talk and, to the people that were walking past my car, I probably looked like a crazed schizophrenic. But it helps me, so I really didn’t care. I took a breath of air into my lungs tried to get a hold of whatever peace I had left inside of me.
I finally calmed down.
I’m not entirely sure if I have PTSD or whatever other form of it there is. But I do know one thing. The girl in these memories or flashbacks or whatever I am having on these horrible but often occasions, regardless of whether I know that she is indeed me or not, doesn’t feel like me anymore. She feels like a completely different person. Like some other girl that looks like me and talks like me is stuffing her horrible recollections into my brain when I’m sleeping or something.
And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.