It is quite apt.
The clinical description of the start of a panic attack.
But when you are in the moment it is any thing but.
My body has taken to thrusting me into this state of hyper arousal before the arsecrack of dawn has even had a chance to bend over.
Deep in the inky blackness, my eyes fly open and I am sure that I am hanging over a metaphorical cliff, about to die.
I try to reason with myself but my brain is having none of it, I am going to die somehow and none of your stupid logical thoughts will prevent that.
I feel like my chest is being crushed. I struggle to breathe. My heart jumps out of my body and bounces around on the bed, spurting my panic all over the crisp white sheets with every beat.
I stare at the 5ft tall Emerson quote on my wall designed to calm me the fuck down and try to focus on the words, or even just the shapes of the letters.
Eventually the feeling subsides. I can feel my blood pulsating through every part of my body.
Even my hair, my nails, the tip of my tongue.
I concentrate on every body part, and as I do they start to relax.
Sometimes it is just my arms, legs, each individual toe that needs to be swaddled and calmed and gently coaxed back to sleep.
Sometimes every atom needs to be called by name.
Just like the panic attack that preceded the calm, there is no way of measuring.
It just is.
This is new, the night time attacks, normally they strike as I am getting ready for work.
In the bathroom.
AFTER I have had my fucking shower.
Because I always have to have a reason for such things, I wonder if it is related to tripling in decibels of my snoring or my struggle to get my blood pressure above 100 or the fact that I am so. fucking. tired all the time I want to go to bed with the sun.
Or maybe, and this is probably more the case, just the fact that I am constantly searching for a reason for such things is causing me stress.
I am my own worst enemy.
Especially in the dark.