I’m writing this down now just in case. You never know. Never know who will read it, or who will understand it. I woke this morning and I looked around trying to recognize something. A door, a window, an article of clothing. Nothing was familiar.
A wild panic filled my soul and rested in my throat which grew tighter making breathing difficult. I could feel myself growing hotter. My heart began to race. Nothing made sense. I prayed and tried to be calm.
Where was I? What is that light? Is it a window? A door? What is this place? Who am I? Oh my heavens, I’ve forgotten who I am. The room began to spin. Am I dead? I can’t be dead? Did I die. Where am I?
Then I could make out a doorway, then another as everything came back into focus. Slowly. I recognized my own room. But, is this my house? Whose house is it. Finally, it came to me. Yes, it is my house. I threw off the covers and tried to take a deep breath.
I remained motionless staring at the ceiling until I could recall where I was, who I was, what I did the day before, what day today was, what time it was. My body ached. The doctors had found nothing wrong. But each morning was the same. It took great effort to get out of bed. My body protested with groanings and creakings. Am I going mad? Grandma died of alzheimer’s. But she was 89. Can this happen at 50? Every day is the same. Hey, half the time I don’t even know what day it is. Is this part of the madness. Is it just old age? The chemicals in the food? Something toxic in my environment? Black mold? Chinese drywall? Radon?
I feel so trapped and helpless and hopeless. Sometimes it’s more intense than others. But it’s always there just beneath the surface of my Stepford smile.
Written for Sunday Scribblings prompt #239 – Intense