Is there a start to it? Is there any definitive moment, which I can put my finger on, that could be called a start? I guess not. Please do not be offended by the disconnected account of my tribulations with this very special way of life, only because I do not know how to fathom it completely yet.
Let’s start with 2012, the first major dip into this endless mire. I was holidaying with my parents when I experienced life-altering fear. Of? Of dying from an airplane crash. Needless to say, I didn’t go for a vacation again that involved flying for the next two years. Or that involved parents. Back home, the fear manifested into general fear of death. If I could write about the tirade, I would, but I don’t think there are words yet for that kind of a paranoia. Enter other friendly folks like massive heart palpitations, panic attacks, chronic insomnia and like I mentioned before, abject fear. I cannot stress enough.
I have been the wildling of the family for the longest time. The one untamed, and there I was cowering in a corner for one day of sanity. I wept, I died a million times. I clung to my mother. I became a hapless, useless child. But I swear, if you saw me, you would think I was sunshine itself.
4 years later, I am still battling it. I have my good days and very bad days. I don’t talk about it. I just try to smother the implosions. It’s a rage. A war.
Let’s attack the initial question again for a second. Why did it even happen? Some other day. Perhaps.