Panic attacks


There is a tree on a street off my street and it is a beautiful tree. It surprises me every time I see it. “Boo!” it says in a showery voice of blossoms or of blossoms to be or of blossoms on their way out. It’s Miranda July but not as hard or as false. It’s just a tree that looks foreign in this country and on this street but at home in the sunshine and moonlight. I wonder, if I walk past it now,

Panic attacks are not fun, as a lot of you will know. Severe or not, it always makes me feel like I need to curl up somewhere and

Dignity. He mentioned dignity casually and with grace. A slight, beautiful man with a robin on his chest.

If I spend half an hour thinking about something, I will then be allowed to leave this house and speak to people.

If I spend ten minutes hanging up laundry, I can then sit down and have a cup of tea.

If I’d put my head down and filled in the form, wrote the email, chased the people who could maybe, possibly help with

The machine in the other room has stopped

“Hello!” from outside makes its way in

I file a sheet of paper with some force and it takes its place in another world and I’ll visit it again on another sunny day.

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