Panic. How can panic be so quiet? So locked inside, buried deep in my self, screaming-banging-running into walls panic. I live with it. I sleep with it. I take it out and examine it. But I -never- let it run free. I never let it escape, to exercise and grow bigger, to smear its mess all over the landscape, and the few people I can call friends.
It never leaves. My heart beats to its rhythm, my muscles live tangled by its strength, my nerves, my reactions, are in direct reference to it. But no one sees. It dances behind my eyes, under my skin, around and around my mind…but no one knows.
Sometimes, a pale reflection can be seen, twisting my heart and bringing messages of pain that can’t be hidden. Then they give me things. Things to chase it away. Things to lift my spirits until I can lift them on my own. But they can’t see.
The reflection that they see is thin and watery, spread over my skin like makeup. A mask of the real thing, created for them to have something to “fix”. Then, once it is “fixed”, it crawls inside, or simply evaporates, until the next time. They are happy, because I am “better” again, and thus no longer a problem for them. But they can’t care.
Not don’t, can’t. They live with their own inner demons, some or most with a long enough leash, long enough for them to walk them in public, to exercise them around others of the same, and never even seeing the mess they leave behind. Some are proud of them, displaying them as fine examples of the type, showing them off, expecting medals and admiration.
I envy them.