I fucking hate you.’ I seethe at my reflection through tight teeth. Tears roll down my cheeks and drip, drip, drip on to my shirt, making Rorschach patterns that I don’t dare try to decipher. An urge that I haven’t felt in a long time is burning inside my stomach. I take a deep breath, but air has the consistency of tar as I suck it back and choke it down. I lean on the sink, claw at the porcelain basin. It’s no good. I’m spiralling and I can’t stop it. Panic is bad. Panic mixed with disdain for yourself is worse. Maybe I can sit on your porch and you can keep the door closed. It burns, makes my ears bleed. I wonder how many times he’s said that to Amy. Never. Not once. God. I’m such a freak. I want to climb out of my own skin. The room undulates. There’s no one here, but I feel like there are hands on me, pushing me around and around in a circle. My head throbs; my teeth start chattering. Most of the time I can ride out a panic attack. I just curl up in a ball and wait for it to pass.
