Content Warning: Panic attacks
Time after time, I would stare at this empty spot on my ceiling. The rigid popcorn texture lived above my bed. Every night, I would return my eyes to the same spot as I fell asleep. Concentrating, fixating, observing that same spot. It was always there waiting for me. It never moved. It just stayed put. Just knowing it could never leave gave me comfort. There wasn’t anything particularly special about a cluster of small, white bumps. My eyes could always retrace the steps it took to find my spot.
One particular night, my brain forgot how to get there. I looked over and over but I couldn’t find it. It was gone. Panic took over my body as tears streamed down my face and onto my pillows. A giant weight climbed up, and made its way to my chest. It sat there until I forgot what it was like to breathe. These thoughts took over my mind as my mouth lost the ability to move. The rest of my body was stuck. I felt trapped. All I wanted was to find my spot. Instead, my fingers went numb. That spot helped my brain go silent. Focusing on the tiny bumps allowed the tension in my fingertips and the stress in my shoulders to relax. That moment felt like the end of my world.
I didn’t get much sleep that night. I hated myself for losing something that mattered so much to me. My whole routine felt off. Nothing felt the same as before—before my spot disappeared. A part of me felt like it died. The part where I could think straight and fall asleep without hyperventilating. The smallest change could cause a panic attack. It felt as if someone was suffocating me and no one around could help. That’s what my spot was for. It helped me control my breaths as my body turned off for the night. Eventually, I found that spot again. Only it didn’t belong to me anymore. For a while I couldn’t see it. My spot hadn’t been there to help me get through the nights. I managed to do that on my own. It was a piece of me and now it’s not. My eyes can return to that cluster of small, white bumps, but I no longer need to.
