Mari Sánchez Cayuso

Tag: anxiety

  • The Synchronicities of Panic

    Bricks. Roof. Trees. Sky.
    Beige. Green. Blue. White.

    Four tangible things.

    I was taught this fifteen years ago, and somehow I have carried it everywhere since. When panic comes, look outward. Name what is real. Give the mind something it cannot argue with.

    A roof is a roof. A tree is a tree. The sky is blue.

    Start there.

    Inhale slowly. Exhale longer.

    Again.

    Panic is strange because even when you know exactly what it is, your body does not care.

    My mind says, I know this feeling.

    My body takes longer to trust me.

    So I pull over.

    I park beneath a tree, lean the seat back, and wait. Because that is what you do. You wait for your body to catch up with what your mind already knows.

    You are okay.
    You are okay.
    You are okay.

    And then panic does this other strange thing to me.

    It takes me backward. Not to one particular day, but to that old maternal terror of loving something I cannot control.

    That fear.

    The one that says, fix it, fix it, fix it, even when there is nothing you can fix in that exact second.

    It makes me younger somehow.

    Not in years.
    In fear.

    So I do not follow it there.

    Bricks. Roof. Trees. Sky.

    Come back.

    There is a bird in the tree above me. I watch it flap its wings, chirp, move from one branch to another. Its entire purpose, for that moment, is exactly that.

    And I envy it.

    Not because it is free.

    Because it is only where it is.

    No yesterday. No next thing. No inventory of everything that could go wrong.

    Just branch.
    Wing.
    Sound.
    Gone.

    Birds are fleeting that way.

    Maybe that is why I notice them when I am afraid. They arrive without explanation and leave before I can ask anything of them.

    And for a second, I follow that instead.

    My breathing gets better. I can feel myself coming back into my body.

    And then I cry.

    Not because I am more afraid.

    Because I am not.

    Because sometimes after all that fear, there is nowhere for it to go except out.

    So I let it.

    I write this down quickly because later I know what I will do. I will be fine. I will get up. I will drive. I will go do whatever comes next.

    And I will say, I had a panic attack, as though those four words could possibly explain what it felt like while I was inside it.

    So I write it now.

    Before I make it smaller.
    Before I forget the fear.
    Before I forget the relief.

    The tree.
    The breath.
    The bird.

    Bricks. Roof. Trees. Sky.

    Come back.

    The bird lifts from the branch.

    And I do too.

  • Human Interior

    I sit motionless
    until the world stops feeling louder
    than my own breathing

    I loosen my hands
    from the steering wheel

    I remind myself
    that fear is not prophecy

    That the nervous system
    can turn uncertainty
    into catastrophe
    if given enough silence

    Outside
    someone returns a shopping cart
    Someone adjusts sunglasses
    beneath a blue sky
    Someone continues living
    without realizing
    another human being nearby
    is quietly trying
    to come back to themselves

    I watch ordinary life carefully
    when this happens

    The woman loading groceries
    The wind moving through trees
    The automatic doors opening and closing

    Small evidence
    that reality remains intact

    Sometimes I lower the windows
    just to feel air move

    Sometimes I put my hand against my chest
    as if calming an injured animal

    Sometimes I say my own name
    softly inside my head
    to remind myself
    I am still here

    And eventually
    the world returns gradually

    Not all at once

    First the parking lot
    Then the sunlight
    Then my body

    Then the understanding
    that I am not losing my mind

    Only carrying too much of it
    at the same time

    Sometimes the tears arrive so quietly
    I notice only the taste

    Salt gathering at the corner of my mouth
    like the body attempting
    to return itself to the sea

    The instinct to disappear
    To heal unseen

    I think I am like cats in that way

    I hide to cure myself

    Inside parked vehicles
    Empty driveways
    Silent kitchens after midnight

    Anywhere the world cannot watch me
    trying to gather myself back together

    Sometimes I taste my own tears
    and think how strange it is
    that grief is made of salt too

    as though the body already understands
    that survival occasionally requires
    licking your own wounds
    in solitude

    Until eventually
    the breathing slows

    The thoughts loosen

    The ordinary world resumes its shape

    And I return quietly to it
    carrying myself carefully
    like something once injured

    still learning
    that not every silence
    means danger