Sundays are our days. It's the only day of the week we both have off and the only day we can be as lazy as we want.
But see, I awake in the morning with my chest feeling tight. I brush it off as I brush my teeth yet my palms are still sweating.
As I fight very hard to stop the shaking, I drop the cigarette I'm having with my coffee. You are already done with your coffee and cigarette, I just need some exta time.
You ask me what's wrong when I laid in bed with you. "Nothing." I say but you can feel the bed shaking from my uneven breathing.
You continue reading articles on your phone and scrolling through twitter, not a care in the world. You did nothing wrong, see, this is just me. This is my illness as they call it.
It's a stupid illness, an unnecessary one that ruins good days like these. Your good morning is the nightmare I never woke up from.
My shaking won't stop. You continue to ask what's wrong but I can't give you an answer. I get up and grab my pack of cigarettes. I say nothing and you stay behind.
I sit in my car. This is where I go when I have these attacks. My 1..2...3... inhale and 3...2...1... exhale turns into gasping for air and pulling my hair.
I'm sobbing at this point, grabbing my chest, begging for air. Thought after thought flashing through my head. I am so tired of this. I am trying to convince myself it's all in my head.
Why does this happen to me? Why can't I be enjoying my Sunday like you are? I'm in my car losing my mind and you think I'm just casually outside smoking a cigarette.
I'm screaming and pounding my fists on my steering wheel. I just want it to stop. How much longer will I have to live in this constant fear of being triggered from nothing.
I have been taking my meds just like I'm supposed to. I'm telling myself it'll pass but my heart is down to my feet and my body is engulfed by an energy so dark I can't escape.
Eternity passes and now I'm sitting here, lifeless. My eyes swollen from crying, my fists throbbing from trying to release the build up. I'm exhausted. I'm disappointed at myself. I give up.
I whipe the dry tears from my cheeks and fix my hair. I take a deep breath in and walk back inside.
I walk in and there you are, looking ever so peaceful. So relaxed you ask, "Everything okay?" The look of sane in your eyes reflect an image of my shattered ones. "Yea, I'm fine," I smiled.