Goose bumps blister my flesh. I should be used to this, but my body’s chemistry makes it feel like this is the first time this has happened to me. It’s been years though, and it tires me out to think back on when it started, how long it’s been, and how long I have to go before it ends. There’s really only one way it ends for me though, and that’s another thing I don’t want to think about, to tire myself out with.

It comes like a wave, my whole body runs cold, and I start to feel the palpitations, and of course it makes me think that this time will end up in a heart attack. It never does though. That’s the easy way for this to end, and that’s never been the case with me. I start to wonder again how long I’ll have to go through this, but I can’t really grasp time, I’m just aware of the now and the sweat and the heat emanating from my skin. The past and the now and when all mix together and it makes me feel lightheaded.

Was there something I could have done when I was in middle school that would have changed the trajectory of my life, that would have prevented me from leading this life, or is it one of those cases where the road may be longer but it will always lead to here?

When I’m out and see people going about their lives, looking so normal and unbothered, I feel a twinge of anger that it’s me and not them. It’s unfair of me, though, since it’s likely if they were to see me I would look like just another person in the background of their lives, a forgettable face that didn’t merit committing to even short term memory. I don’t believe that, though, not really. There’s something about me that’s physically marked, that anyone who looks long enough will be able to see, and I can’t hide or escape what happened.

I pull my jacket tighter and rub my arms, try to push the heartbeat in my throat back down.