How do you explain how it feels when your body physically rejects your thoughts?
How it feels to be a mere spectator
to the whole event?
In which the blogger regrets circumstances of the weekend, leading to an essay on the physicality of anxiety.
In which the blogger regrets circumstances of the weekend, leading to an essay on the physicality of anxiety.
[excerpt from Spelunking Toward Illumination]
by Felix J. Bedingfield
I want to explore what a panic attack feels like for me.
It begins with mile-a-minute images and ideas that strobe through my mind. They’re centered loosely around something I can’t control: emotional pain, social discomfort, distrust. The sensation is very frontal, as if the synapses are more than electrical impulses surging through my nerves. It’s tangible, this jerking knot of thoughts, shreds of words, little shards of worry and self-doubt. I feel it right behind my forehead, loud and insistent. It’s frustrating that once I clue in to this sequence, I’m already late to the party. These thoughts liquefy and seep down my spine. Muscles along the way tense. My arms begin their lockdown procedure against my sides, each fingertip tingles and freezes. I’m sure my palms sweat. At this point, I try to evacuate a room.
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