The Weight of Humanness


I sat down to write something today because I had experienced two major panic attacks and each lasted more than half an hour. It was a cold day, but the sun was out. So I turned up the blinds and tried to focus on anything I could see outside that would take my mind away from my thoughts. I wouldn’t call myself an escapist, but with these chronic panic attacks and depression, yes, I want to be removed from the monotony of my day-to-day life. Yet, I feel I can’t assign words to all my recent feelings.

I’m going on a two-week hiatus to Florida. I wish I could tell you I was excited about it. I wish I could tell you that I felt anything that resembled joy, but my daily panic attacks prohibit me from feeling alive. I’m at the most dysfunctional I have ever been. And though the therapist’s said it takes three weeks for the antidepressants to “kick in,” for now I’m battling with gasping for air every minute, chest pains, and perpetual fear.

My mind right now is a swirling mess. A jungle of what-ifs and actual real ideas, not to mention the stuff of life we have walked through in the last year. It’s dark here right now, little light gets in. My body is still, my mind is not. I’m chopping away an unpredictable path.

I’m battling the toughest war I’ve ever encountered.

I sound like a spoiled brat. When there are people out there in the world with real struggles. I think of a mom in the other side of the world, when I worry about help and comforts, she’s probably worrying about necessities. I ask for penance.

The impermanence of being human weighs on me a lot more lately. I’m 36 years old (my birthday is around the corner) and I’m wallowing in this thick mass and impossibilities that define my life right now. The weight of humanness. We all bear it.


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