On Anxiety Disorder

I've had a pretty serious problem with anxiety for as long as I remember. Sometimes, when the panic flames up, it feels like I'm going to burst into flames. This poem came out of that feeling.

Spontaneous Human Combustion 

a human body catching fire without an apparent external source of ignition

When my first fire flared crimson,  

doctors diagnosed delirium:

a phantom flame that burned harshly

but did not mark me,

not externally. 

Dismissed as yet another 

hysterical teenage girl, hungry 

for attention. My chaos

made them nervous

like I was doing it on purpose. 

So, they stuck the ashes back together 

with shame and Sellotape,

thinking they could squeeze

the fire out of me.

And I learnt to burn silently. 

Stomach somersaulting, head clouded 

with the shock of smoke, 

I stepped on hot coals so often, 

I stopped smelling the burnt flesh. 

It happens when I least expect… 

the crisp crack of splitting skin.

Spitting sparks into lovers’ eyes.

Throwing up shadows, as I fight 

the urge to combust 

and it still hurts so much. 

Even kindness can be kindling.

Lace skirts charred black

by well-meaning words,

scratching red phosphorus

ignited by the smallest source.

Dismissed as yet another 

difficult woman, desperate for control, 

every bonfire a warning beacon

as the flames fracture and pop

I just want it to stop.

I just want it to stop.

*

Sometimes, it’s hard to distinguish between 

fire and water: 

the crisp lick of campfire sizzle

sounds like rain on concrete,

sounds like an open window in storm.

Sometimes, it’s hard to distinguish between

fear and excitement:

the shallow-breathed dizziness

feels like gut-punch, fists tight nausea, 

feels like adrenaline flooding, blood burning.

Sometimes, it’s hard to distinguish between

the versions of myself:

am I good or am I bad?

Am I a pleasure or a problem?

Am I too much or not enough?

*

These days my fires still flare crimson,  

but this is not delirium:

those old fears still burn harshly

but they do not mark me,

never permanently.

Embracing my body’s need 

for stability, I seek internal 

reassurance. My chaos

does not make me nervous:

I am not doing this on purpose. 

With support to reassemble

without shame or Sellotape,

there’s no need to squeeze

the fire out of me.

I refuse to burn silently. 

Stomach still somersaulting sometimes,

I fall into circular thinking.

Stumbling on hot coals less often;

accepting I’ll never be perfect. 

It happens when I least expect… 

The deep rhythm of exhaled breath.

Cold water sipped from shared cups.

Letting feelings pass, as I understand

the urge to combust 

then, it doesn’t hurt so much. 

Every kindness is confirmation

that I am worthy of love.

Well-chosen words, stoking 

the calm that springs, spontaneous

ignited by the smallest source.

Embraced as one of many

complicated people, learning to forgive themselves, 

every attack is a fleeting beacon

as the flames shimmer and pop

And I know it will stop.

And I know it will stop.

Image via unsplash.com