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


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