My mind is scattered, frenetic: it flits from stimulus to stimulus, terrified by the bright lights along C5. My stomach is heavy with confusion and dread.
Terrifyingly illogical thoughts run through my head: your car will crash and you’ll fly headfirst out of the shattered windshield. what if you go to tiendesitas at 3 in the morning? what if you got out of the car and just sat on the curb in a dark alley? you might just get killed by a crazed drunk, and you’d deserve it. you’re trash, you’re disgusting and worthless and who the fuck do you think you are?
The images are disturbing and intrusive. Slit my throat. Stab my heart or my stomach. Bury a switchblade in between my ribs.
Cause of death: exsanguination due to self-inflicted wounds.
My hands are tightly curled into fists, lest I start hitting my face as I am apt to do when particularly agitated. For the 20 kilometers between work and home, I remain stiff against the leather car upholstery. I cannot trust myself to stay sane for long enough.
Written several weeks ago, in the midst of a particularly bad panic attack.