A Prescription of Air.
The lovely folk at
offered the prompt ‘Air’ recently for a short story. This was my fiction therapy-based response.
Air
I used to think panic attacks were dramatic, flailing arms, gasping for air, people rushing in to help. My school counsellor taught me otherwise.
I’d been having them for months.
Limbs would freeze, but inside my heart was racing, my vision blurred, my breaths shallow, and an impending sense of doom, while life carried on around me.
At school, I’m never alone: 30 students in every classroom, hundreds in the corridors, shouting, shoving. At home, our tiny house echoes with arguing, nagging and crying. My parents have an “open-door policy.” So, no privacy. I spend a lot of time in the bathroom.
As exams approach, the stress builds. So do the panic attacks.
My counsellor taught me strategies. They help a bit, but they don’t stop it.
One day, I arrived at her room, barely holding on, desperately refocusing my vision, shadows closing in. The air thick and heavy, lungs desperate. She took one sweeping, assessing look and asked, “Now?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just stood up and led me out. Down the corridor, past reception, announcing decisively: “He’s with me.”
Outside, on soft grass under the lone tree near the car park, we sat.
“Shoulders back,” she said, “Look up.”
Looking up at the sky through the tree leaves.
We breathed together. Deep, slow, fresh, filling. The sky stretched wide. The walls were gone. The noise softened.
Then she smiled.
“Well,” she said, “I prescribe you fresh air. Minimum twice a day.”
I exhaled.