I feel my chest tighten like someone, an oppressor, sits upon my ribs. I can barely breathe. I’m struggling to keep my head straight. My heart flutters. This is the beginning of a low grade panic attack.
What am I doing in this moment? Well, I’m plotting out my healing journey. I’m tapping into my subconscious to ask what needs to be done. I’m second guessing every step of the way, but I keep pushing through. The closer I get to starting the work, the sicker I feel. The more dread creeps in, wrapping me up in wintry fingers and constricting my throat.
I am my own oppressor. I cannot succeed at this journey until I can breathe through this. Tap it out. Open to the possibilities of being greater. Of being me.
There is so much fear. The fear of being me.
Even as I write these words, reassuring, or at least trying to, I still feel the pressure. I am still struggling to take in a full breath.
There is, I picture, a bundle of fears like a bundle of sticks collected and bound deep in the woods to bring to the fire. I want to burn them all, and yet, I stand on the edge of the clearing staring at the crackling fire and I am… afraid. I cannot toss them in.
The cycle loops back around. The resistance to my healing journey is palpable.
I must overcome.