It Was The Year--Repost

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Itwas the year I had a panic attack for the first time in my life,

whenI thought for a moment that I could not move my legs.

Myblood pressure went up so high, I thought I would die.

Apparentlythinking that you will die is not a valid cause of death.

Andwhen I told the handsome Middle Eastern doctor what had happened,

heguessed that it had happened before.

Hedidn't give me a prescription guaranteeing it wouldn't happen again.

Menwill exploit you, they will harm you, my mother told me that night under theyellow light of the kitchen table.

Iremember the light on her face, her skin looked so yellow when she said this.

Itwas the year I talked in abstractions about real things

andtalked real about abstractions.

It was the year my dreams died of a disease.

Photo by Luis Galvez on Unsplash

They vanquished and reality spray-painted its hue into

graffition my soul, in a language I have yet to learn.

Itwas the year there were those who would say long sentences to me

andI would not remember their words but only the shapes their lips formed.

Icould taste the spit on their tongues.

Inever cut myself, threw up food, or took too many pills like some girls I knew.

Ijust sat there sometimes and didn't move, not even to breathe.

Althoughapparently breathing was happening without my written consent ora prescription from the doctor

whowrote me the script for chill pills.

Itook the chilling seriously, really seriously.

Itbecame my job, my profession, no my career, to chill.

For a while, I did nothing else.

Photo by Volkan Olmez on Unsplash

Thisis the year I woke up from a deep slumber.

Ihad put myself to sleep, not with drugs, but the sedative of a sanctuary.

Mybed had become my home, I needed to nest there for a while.

Thisis the moment I look back at my journey

andrealize that the world is going on here with or without me participating.

Itis the year I decide there is no time

Ihave not lost anything, time is not something we own

timeis a vessel through which we see that we are existing

butit is not the measurement of that existence.

Itis only a window.

Itwas about time I opened that window.

Whoknew there was so much air to breathe?

Itwas the year or was it the lifetime, that I forgot I existed.

Thisis the moment, I remember.

nina

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