February is hard for me. Even more so when it gets time to be my birthday.
I’m starting to realize I compartmentalize so much out of habit and that’s why I never seem to post when things are not good.
So I’m writing this now, 45 minutes after my panic attack. I don’t know why those moments of death stick so hard for me but they do. I remember down to the very motion when my mom told me my Obachan passed and that’s why February is hard. I’d willingly skip this month if I had a choice, but unfortunately it’s still on the calendar no matter how hard I wish it away.
I hold things in. I know I do. So when the days creep closer to my personal Dooms day, I feel it pouring closer and closer to the top- until it eventually overflows. Usually first with anger and then the tears. Once the first tear falls, it’s over. The panic grips my chest to the tightest point of contraction and won’t let go. My breaths become gasps for an air of relief from the pain. Every muscle in my body feels my grief. In the few moments I’m in complete agony, my body has run a marathon. It takes a choking cough before I catch my breath and the distraction of cooling air on my face before I collapse into exhaustion. I’ll be in physical pain tomorrow from it all.
When you want nothing more than to escape the agony, it will always catch up to you in a drowning wave of pain. I know eventually this might get easier, but in six years- it hasn’t. So this is the raw truth in healing; it isn’t ever pretty.