Photo credit: Porsche Brosseau via Flickr

From the depths of nightmares I wake,

Chest aching, head ringing, feet tingling —

I can’t breathe! The world has lost color, I shake

I writhe. I—I—I need air. The bed’s too soft, standing —

Hands brace against the table, Heart —

My heart, precious muscle that pumps my life blood.

The room — It spins, swirls and crackles in black art.

Panic comes in a torrent, clashing with all senses — a flood.


Hands fumble for the latch.

Books fall, chest splits, brain’s impaired —

The result of being in a two week, stress induced rough patch.

Do I have to dial 911?

Please, I don’t want to die.

So many things I want to get done,

Especially with you by my side.

Kind, unsteady hands take me to bed.

The world continues spinning, but I cope.

Fear is blown away, breath evening, mind filled with Dread.

Feeling returns to my extremities, body is on the mend.

But I can’t play pretend,

I turn to my husband, my best friend

And ask, voice a quiver, “Will this happen again?”