Carissa Palazzolo

Eight. Four. Seven.

     Breathe. In for eight counts, hold for four counts, release for seven counts. Keep breathing, keep counting, stay alive. You’re okay, my brain is telling me, my subconscious screaming in order to be heard over the din of every other thought that bounced inside my head. Nothing is wrong. You’re safe at home. The couch on which I sat in my dimmed family room was the safest place I could possibly be. But it did not matter what rationality is telling me, what I knew to be true. My emotions, so vivid and present that I felt I could reach inside myself and rip them out, would not listen to the whispered voice of reason.
     I should not be struggling like this. I was getting better. I was moving past this... this phase of my life where I would slip in and out of reality, praying that one day I would wake up and I would feel normal. Each day that I slashed off the calendar brought me farther and farther away from him, and all the others like him that glared down at me from their high horses, condemning me to inadequacy. Moving on had been difficult, it was brutal and almost took the breath from my lungs to have them never fill again. But I allowed myself to move forward, to forgive the people who tore my world and confidence from beneath me.
     I did not, could not, understand why my hands were shaking, clammy sweat clinging to my palms. I had been perfectly fine two hours ago, two minutes ago, even. So why was I feeling this now? Why were words from a year ago searing behind my eyes, reminding me of all the things I could never be?
     Sitting up from my slumped position on the couch, I planted my feet on the floor, hoping that I would find security and comfort in the solidity of the carpet covered concrete. When I found no stability, I ran a faltering hand through my hair, then reached for my phone. The blue LED lights that blinked the time from the cable box blurred and swam through my vision, but I knew that it was late. Everyone was sleeping or should be. Tapping the power button on my phone, I unlocked it, wavering fingers typing out a message to anyone who would listen. My breaths were labored, wheezing in and out of my lungs as I sent the text, as I tried to count my way to sanity. In for eight, hold for four, out for seven. In for eight, hold for four, out for seven. In for eight-- my phone buzzed, sending a blue glow into the golden haze that the floor lamp cast from the corner.
     Recognition. Here it was, in a notification on my phone screen. An electronic note from a friend telling me that I was alright, that I needed to breathe, that I needed ice water. Arguing in my panicked state that I did not need water was futile, so I stood up, blotches of black spotting my vision. My legs felt like pillars of jelly as I cautiously shuffled to the kitchen. My unsteady hand grabbed a glass from the cabinet, it yelping when it crashed into another glass. Somehow, I managed to bring it down without shattering it or any other glasses, but it wobbled as I clunked it down to the counter top. Opening the freezer and grabbing a handful of ice cubes, I let them fall into the glass one at a time, each one ringing like a bell as it tumbled into the cup. Water spilled and dribbled onto the counter as I attempted to pour it into the glass. Mopping up the excess water, I snatched the cup from the counter and hobble back to my seat on the sofa, taking tentative sips of water all the while. As I sat, my legs seemed to give out beneath me, almost as if they were giving up. I wanted to give up sometimes, but at that moment, all I wanted was for the shaking to stop. For my breath to come normally, so I did not have to force air to rush in and out of my lungs. If I stopped consciously inhaling and exhaling, my body would quit breathing all together. Simultaneously feeling claustrophobic and yet wanting to collapse in on myself, I bounced my legs, almost to remind myself that I was still functioning, albeit not very well.
     Minutes that were as long as hours passed, and I continued to sip water, feeling my heart rate slow once more and my breath begin to take hold in my lungs again. Breathing deeply, I stood once more to go get ready for bed. I did not have to count the beats of my breath, nor did I have to still shaking limbs. I still had to remind myself that I was not alone, that I was loved, that I was needed. That I mattered. That I had purpose. Because the assumption that breathing fine meant I was fine was dangerous. I would get better, I hoped. But tomorrow seemed far away, and recovery seemed even farther. Climbing the stairs and collapsing into bed, I tried to sleep, but could not. Instead, my brain repeated numbers like counting sheep: eight, four, seven.
     Eight.
     Four.
     Seven.