Write Out Loud – Day 2

I’ve had many a panic attack in class, and when I read Shellana’s piece, I felt like it was a snapshot of my fourth year medieval literature class. She has such a strong voice to her pieces and a natural flow in her dialogue that silently slips into poetry when you’re not looking. I will not pretend that I taught her any of that, but I will take credit for making her write a poem about Kim Kardashian’s butt this one time.

2 Minutes of Forever 

It’s a terrible feeling. To sit in a classroom and suffocate in silence. On the far wall, the clock ticks away, second by second, a hand hops over little numbers and determines how much longer I can’t breathe. 40 minutes until it’s over. The room is full of kids my age, seated around me at their desks, absently listening to the teacher in front. Her droning voice fills the room with a hazy murmur. I can’t let her see. I can’t let anyone see. I glance at the clock. I try to be discreet. Furtive. 39 minutes. I round to 40. Nothing has changed and I’m here forever.

Always, forever, every day.

Always, forever, every day. Too often colours pour out of me, greying myself into a messy blur with no expression or form. Part of me is glad to have become a wallflower – innocent, inconspicuous, safe. And then another part of me is screaming with guilt and anger, frustrated that I’m letting myself peel away.

Rip. Now I am nothing. A torn piece of fabric, splitting between what I think I should be and how I really am. My threads scream from the pressure. With my busted fingers I dig through my mind’s mess, looking for answers or something to blame. And when I find it, I’ll say, That’s it. That’s why. And now I can fix it. But it never happens and I just end up digging myself a deeper grave.

I’m flawed, odd, and different.

I need to stop digging. I need to stop falling. I have to climb out, swim to the surface, and breathe again. But I can’t. It’s a one-man battle I can never seem to win. I punch myself in the gut, parry pain with pitchforks and knives, in a desolate land where my mind consumes itself in thunderstorms. I shudder. My head feels heavy. I don’t think I’m good enough to be here. I think I make the room darker, uglier just by sitting here. I think I’m a mistake. But no one says a word and I have to hide before they see. I’m flawed, odd, and different. Guilty and scared. Just leave me be.

I don’t know if anyone in class notices me slipping, losing my grip. No one says a word so I think I’m good. I have to be good. Because they think I’m good. But a sudden drum beats hard inside my chest. And a feeling of dread washes over me. Out. I have to get out. I try to make a straight face but my body stops. Everything stops. My legs lose feeling, and blood drains from my head. I want to raise my hand. I want to get out. Can’t breathe. I make the slightest movement, but the drum beats louder and I feel a thousand eyes burn through the back of my neck. I can already hear them whispering. I think something’s wrong with me. I shift in my seat. I glance at the door. The clock again. Quicker this time. 39, no 38 minutes. I round to 40. I’m here forever.