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22.05.12

 

The first time it happened, I was too young to know what a ‘panic attack’ was – I thought the devil was yelling at me, or I was going crazy, or the world was ending.

That’s a lot of existential shit for a six year old to handle. But my first attack wasn’t my FIRST attack. I asked my mom the first time she remembered me experiencing what we called my night terrors. She talked about me as an infant, going white, tense, and rigid before letting loose with a panicked shriek, past accepting all succor.

Although I come from a religious house, my night-time terrors of the devil were something different. The God of my childhood was a loving, merciful figure, who, while readily willing and able to dole out justice as needed, was also in possession of a wicked sense of humor. While awake, I knew full well that he had bigger fish to fry than a six year old girl whose biggest crime was having claimed that her sister didn’t give her the Oreos she was instructed to dole out, thus ensuring I got four instead of the requisite two.

Source: FemPop