Oh, great. Here we go again—lungs deciding to take an unscheduled break, like employees walking out for a surprise strike. No notice, no explanation, just a sudden “Figure it out, pal.” And there I am, gasping like a fish out of water, except there’s no water, just the rising tide of panic that makes me feel like I’m drowning anyway.
It’s a familiar script, really. One minute I’m minding my own business, the next, my chest is clenching like a stressed-out intern on their first day. My thoughts? Running laps around my brain like they’re training for the Anxiety Olympics. And just when I think I might get a grip, the whisper creeps in—“I can’t breathe.”
Ah yes, Anxiety, my most persistent guest, making itself comfortable like an unwanted housemate who won’t take the hint. It waltzes in, rearranges my mental furniture, cranks up the volume, and throws a full-blown party in the quiet neighborhood of my mind.
My lungs? They’re playing a cruel game of hide-and-seek, my heart's doing an improv drum solo, and I’m stuck in the middle, trying to remember how to do the one thing I’ve been doing my entire life—just breathe.
And you know what makes it worse? The absurdity of it all. Because I know what this is. I’ve been on this ridiculous merry-go-round before. But that doesn’t make it any less terrifying when it happens. It doesn’t make the air feel any closer.
But here’s the thing—I also know it passes. That, somehow, I always make it through. Sometimes it’s a deep breath that finally breaks through, sometimes it’s a distraction—someone’s laugh, a stupid joke, the world reminding me that there’s still joy even when my body forgets how to function.
So, if you see me laughing too hard at something only mildly funny, maybe that’s just me gasping for air in disguise. And if I ever look like I’m lost in my own head, just remind me—breathe.
Because in the end, it’s not just oxygen I’m fighting for. It’s the chance to inhale life again, fully, freely, and without fear.
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