When Anxiety Becomes Torture and the Darkness Starts Whispering

When anxiety and panic becomes torture and the darkness starts whispering a way out of the pain.

Eyes suddenly open. Already anxious. Awake but fully aware of the pain that’s coming.
Chest caving in, getting tighter. Whole body starts shaking.
Breath shallow and broken. Hard to catch a breath.
Heart pounding so hard it feels like it might split open.

Why is this happening? Am I dying?
Is this a heart attack?
Is this how it ends?

Everything is too loud. Ears ringing.
Too fast.
Too much.
Can’t see straight.
Can’t breathe right.
Can’t speak.
Can’t think.

Just fire, everywhere, mind, body, chest, on fire.
Searing pain through every nerve.
Terror choking the throat, the brain, the spine.
Shaking uncontrollably.
Retching and dry heaving.
The floor is cold, I can feel it on my face.
Everything is cramping up.
The inside screaming louder than the outside ever could.

Please make it stop.
Please make it stop.
Please make it stop.
I’m begging to please make it stop. I can’t do this any longer.

It keeps going.
Longer than it should.
Longer than what’s possible.
But still going.

And when it finally fades...
there’s nothing left.
Just shaking. Numbness. Silence. Every muscle in pain. Migraine.
And the fear of the next wave waiting somewhere nearby.

It happens again.
And again.
And again.

Being awake is scary.
Sleep becomes fear of waking up to the pain.
Can’t eat. Food disappears.
The day becomes a countdown, waiting for the next hit.

Please, not again.
Please God, I can’t do this again.

No one sees the true severity. No one sees the desperation inside. No one sees the darkness, the hopelessness.
“Everyone struggles with anxiety.”
It’s normalized.

A few polite words. A distracted hug here and there. A dinner invite, a kind gesture with no understanding of the absolute crippling terror inside.

They don’t know the war and fear behind the eyes.
Can’t tell them.
Too much.
Too messy.
Too terrifying.

So it’s quiet.
Alone.
In the bathroom.
In the hallway.
In the car.
In bed, curled in a shape not meant for sleeping, just surviving.

The days get darker.
The thoughts shift.
The questions takeover, nonstop racing.

Is this permanent?
Will this ever end?
What if this is forever?

The brain starts whispering exit routes.
The soul wants peace.
I can’t do this to them. But I can’t keep doing this.
No more fire.
No more screaming thoughts.
No more being trapped inside a body that feels like a cage.

If this is it — if this is what it’s like — let it end.
Let me go.
Please, let me go.
I’m not strong enough.
I don’t want to do this anymore.
This hurts too much.
This is too much.

But somehow... still here.
Still breathing.
Still holding on.

So maybe there’s something left.
Something quiet.
Something small.
Not hope. Not yet.

But a word. A phrase. A thread of hope:

I am safe.
I am strong.
I am safe.
I am strong.

Count backwards from 10...
10... 9... 8...
I am safe.
I am strong.

7... 6... 5...
I am safe.
I am strong.

4... 3... 2... 1

I am safe.
I am strong.
I am safe.
I am strong.

Say it even if it’s a lie.
Say it until the next breath comes.
Say it through the fire.

No one’s coming to fix this.
But maybe, just maybe, someone’s sitting here too.
Right next to it. Not afraid to look.
Not afraid to say the quiet part out loud.
Acknowledging, validating, the true depth of the pain you are in.
As a small gesture to give a thread of hope and lifeline to those a few steps behind.

And maybe that’s enough for tonight.