The Panic

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I'd like to think I'm getting used to it. The Panic. It's sitting right there across the room. At times it seems like a bear on a thin chain ready to pounce at any moment. Other times, it looks a lot like my shrink so prim and proper with her legs crossed politely all the while tsking silently about what a fuck up I am. Either way, it's there, always there. Simmering. Waiting. Ready. I can't shake it, though I do fight it. I can fight it. Right now. But what happens when I can't? When I finally have to give in? Will it take me over? Shred me? Medicate me? Will it become me? Will I become it? Or will I become nothing at all?

I worry mostly about the person I used to be. Because she's coming around less and less. It's The Panic's fault. I wouldn't be here unless I had to be. So yeah, I don't blame her for staying away. She's probably the smart one in all this. Still, I'm lonely and I miss her. Sometimes I think if she was still around, The Panic might go away. She was strong and sure and confident. If anyone could fight The Panic and win, it'd be her. But here's the thing - she doesn't come around as much anymore. Because of The Panic.

There probably is no winning this one. I can fight the good fight. I can hold it off for a little while. But sooner or sooner The Panic will spring across the room and get me. Then I, the me I am and the me I once was will cease to be. In my place will be left a shell or maybe a shadow. Or maybe a black hole. In any case, The Panic will have one. And I will have lost.

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