Shame

You know how theres things about you that embarrass you, they make your cheeks burn with shame, and you don't want anyone to know? And then somehow, awfully, they're accidentally brought up, someone asks whats wrong and you can't explain, and suddenly you have a terrible web of non-lies, things you wish were lies, and you don't want to say them.
Ashley Jenn, if you're reading this, stop NOW. Or I'll want to know why. You know who you are. If you read this, I will know, and you will die the worst death I can invent. And you know how creative I can be.
I have a panic disorder. I get anxiety attacks, where I can't breathe, and it's like the most intense fear you've ever had, beyond that, gripping you and filling you until the fear is the only thing in the world. It's the scariest thing that has ever happened to you. And it happens reasonably often. It often happens when I worry about people I know, or I get stuck, or I lie, which, let me tell you, has made me very honest indeed. But it also happens sometimes for no reason, or, as stupid as this is, when I have to do band testing.
I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's true. Whenever testing time rolls round, I can feel the beginning of an attack, sitting there on my chest. Sometimes, I know that it's coming, and I can excuse myself, and go somewhere private, and take deep breaths and remind myself that I'm okay. And I'm glad for that, because that fear, that out-of-control terror, that's private. That's something too raw, to close, for anyone to see, or know about. I feel them coming on, a heavy weight like a steel ball in my chest, I start breathing shallower, I get dizzy, sometimes I start to cry a little, and I have to get out of there.
It's one of those things, one of those evoutionary glitches, that makes my life harder, like anaemia (a lack of iron in the blood, makes you tired all the time, and sluggish, and you have to take icky meds). And it's the scariest thing that will ever happen.
I started getting the attacks when I was eleven, when my sister was in the hospital with brain damage. I don't know if I've mentioned that before, I'll explain it later. Anyways, I was taking on a lot of responsibility for the family; cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, looking after my little brother, on top of my everyday life stuff; school, Guides, choir, friends. And there was one day, when I'd gone and picked up grocerys after school, and I was making dinner. I was the only one home so far, my brother was at his friend's, my father was at work, and my mum was at the hospital with my sister. I was making pasta with homemade white sauce, and the phone rang, and then the pot was boiling over, and my friend on the phone was yattering on about her current 'crisis', whatever it was, and then I burned myself quite badly on the stove, and I was running it under cold water and trying to stir the pasta, which was sticking to the pot, and then the sauce was burning, and I realized that I'd forgotten to pick up the french bread, and then suddenly I couldn't breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack. I thought this must be death. I'm dying. It felt like there were barrel rungs around my chest, pulling tighter and tighter, squeezing the air from my lungs, and my mind was full of nothing but absolute fear. I lay on the floor, with the tap running and the pot boiling over and the sauce burning, trying to get air into my lungs. After a minute , or maybe an hour, time seemed unimportant, pushed aside by more important things, it subsided, and I could think again. I sat up shakily, and then stood. I remember leaning on the counter for a full five minutes before I snapped back, realizing that I had basically mutilated dinner, and the burn on my wrist was stinging. I thought that I was going mad, but I never mentioned it, probably for that reason. I might be cracking up, but I had to be strong for my family.
It was a long time before I realized what these attacks were. I was thirteen, and I read a book called The Nature of Jade, by Deb Caletti. Now, I know what they are, but I haven't told anyone, not even my mum, because they'd send my to psychiatrists, and psychologists, and all sorts of people who'll ask me questions and try to psychoanalyze me. When you have something like that, people treat you different. They treat you like glass, like you might collapse at and time. And I don't want to be The Sick Girl, or Tradgedy of the Week. I am not my disease. So don't pity me, and if a friend reads this, please treat me like you always have. And if an enemy reads this, still be a bitch to me. Cuz I deserve it.