<<Slight trigger warning for anxiety. Be safe, my beautiful readers. I love y'all, and I'm here for you.>>

It always starts in the head, a chill freezing all common sense as the tingling spreads, diffusing into the gut. It manipulates and twists your last meal, whenever that was, sealing the air from seeping into your stomach. Instead, it builds in the chest, slowly becoming heavier and heavier, and you try to push it out, clench your muscles- but it's stuck. It's trapped. So you gasp for new air to replace the old, toxic gas in your lungs. But your throat is closing quick, swelling as the tingling now controls your legs, knees weak and trembling, arms caught in a cold flash, yet burning. Your fingers twitch, playing a silent tune, desperate to be heard in the nothingness of air. Air that should be in your lungs. But instead, your fingers play at it, plucking the molecules away from your mouth. You breathe, but there is nothing to take in. Nothing. There never was. It's violent now, your gasp, as you plead for the necessity of life, body wrenching and thrashing as you reach further and further into with your lungs…

But it's pointless.

It won't work.

And you know this. It's how it's always been.

But everytime, that tiny spark of hope, that little ounce of will, that last struggle to keep trying urges you forward, just a bit more. Just one more breath. One more gasp. One more time.

The tingling slowly retreats from your legs as they lay idle on the ground. Your arms collapse beside you, and the twisting in your gut ceases as your mind numbs. Your breathing slows, shaky, but evening out again. The tension still lingers, but air is reaching your stomach again, filling it with new oxygen. In through your nose, 1...2...3...4…, hold, 1...2…, out through your mouth, 1...2...3...4...5...6…, repeat, repeat, repeat. Hold your ring finger to the vein in your right palm. Press your left ring and index finger to the left of your throat, just under the chin, and count the pulse. Match it with your palm. Your heart stops pounding on your chest, now a subtle knock. In through your nose, hold, out through your mouth. Eyes focus on your fingers out in front as they continue to shake, but now from weakness. Breathe. Breathe, breathe…

You yawn, and it's over.

You're back.

Then, you tilt your head back against the wall, letting your eyelids flitter close, welcoming a cold trickle down your cheek, to your jaw, down your neck, to your heart.

Not again.

But it will always happen again.

But just keep fighting for it, for the air, don't give up on your mind, on your body. When it counts, you will pull through.

It'll happen again, but so will you.