Petrichor

Content Note: This piece includes vivid description of an anxiety attack, and some intrusive thoughts that may arise from one. Reader discretion is advised.

~~~

Spring is finally coming. This winter has felt too long, too weary - but yesterday was warm and sunny, and I sat in the sun reading a book, soaking up that long-missed vitamin D. Today the sky is brewing a storm for us, and I lie on the long, wet grass in my front yard, wearing clothes I don’t care about, as the rain falls around me.

~~~

I had spent the morning working at my home desk, taking calls from distressed and frustrated people, giving them the best answers I could. The whole time an attack building under my skin. I could feel it from the moment I woke up, the inky blackness of my anxiety filling every vacant space in my body until I was near-quivering with the stress of holding it back. The hotline was busy today, not even a few seconds between calls, I didn’t have a chance to breathe. At 1:53pm I felt bile rise in my throat, and forced myself to swallow it as I answered the phone again. At 1:57pm I took my 15 minute break - three minutes early. A few minutes passed, and I finally messaged one of my supervisors - I’m feeling really unwell right now, I don’t think I can finish out my shift. A few minutes passed, and I received no reply. I tried to ask in group chat if there was a shift leader available to message me. No reply. Other people were getting answers. My fifteen minute break was up. I set my phone status to meeting, so I wouldn’t have to take a call, and kept trying to get in contact with someone, anyone who would acknowledge me. A shift leader in a group chat told me I could message him, so I did. Ten minutes later he still had not opened his direct messages - but was still active in the group. My patience was waning and my anxiety building, flowing; I was full to bursting with it. I tagged him in the group chat to let him know I’d messaged him. Another five minutes passed, and with each minute the urge to put my fist through the screen in a fit of stress grew. My partner came into my room quietly, seeing the tense lines of my body and growing concerned. At the same time, the shift leader messaged me back. That’s fine, no worries. I’ll mark you as finishing up now.

“I am putting on some clothes I do not care about, and I am going to go lie face down in the mud,” I told my partner.

They responded gently. “I think it’s raining.”

I nodded. “That’s the point.”

~~~

I’d slightly outgrown most of these clothes, but that’s fine. I wasn’t going to wear something I still wanted. I left my glasses on the kitchen table - I didn’t need to see much, sitting out in the rain. Making my way to the front door, my cat made some loud protests as I barred her from escape.

“You don’t want to go out there. It’s wet and it’s cold and you’re very very small.” I said bluntly.

“Meow!” She responded grumpily.

“You’ll have to take that up with management, I’m afraid.”

~~~

I’m not actually lying face-down like I’d said I would. I considered it, definitely, but I didn’t want wet grass up my nose. Instead, I’d looked for a spot where the grass was slightly shorter, pulled my hood up to protect my hair from getting dirty, and I had laid down with my face to the sky. That’s where I am now. I’m covering my eyes and nose with the hood as well; it wouldn’t do well to fill them with rain. The rain isn’t very heavy yet, but it’s been steady all day, and the swirling grey skies are a promise of more.

The reason I’m out here is very simple. My anxiety is an internal pressure which expands to fill up all the empty space I’ve got, if I let it. That includes taking any sensory input that I don’t expect or control, and twisting it into the emotional equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. To beat it back, I need to regain control and expectation of my sensory environment. In a word, I’m grounding myself. Literally, I suppose.

Physically, I can touch the wet dirt and grass with my bare hands and feet, I can feel the sturdy earth underneath me, I can feel the rain hitting me, I can feel the gentle chill washing over me in a wave. I can hear birds, traffic, wind, I can hear the rain hitting the roof of my house and I can hear it gently thumping the ground beside me, it surrounds me like a blanket. I can taste the rainwater which hits my lips and slides down my throat, and it tastes like simplicity. I close my eyes under the hood and I am surrounded by darkness, and it’s just me and the rain. And then the smell, of course, which rain is famous for - I breathe deeply and the fresh scent of life fills my nose. I breathe deeper and it fills my lungs. The scent of rain is pumped into my own bloodstream this way, and my heart pushes it around my body until the black stain of my anxiety has been pushed back to its resting place, right beneath my ribcage.

~~~

I can finally breathe, for the first time all day. It’s 3pm and finally the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders. I’m going to stay here for a while longer, I think. It is safe here to be open with myself. If I get overwhelmed, I can just dig my fingers deeper into the earth and hold myself firm. I am cold, but not uncomfortable (save for my nipples, freezing to the point of pain, but I can handle that for now). Life, and the world at large, is all too big to think about at the moment without panic. But I am safe here. Right?

There is a virus killing the world.

The people in power do not care about us enough to properly handle this crisis.

They don’t care enough to even keep us fed and housed.

The rain is getting heavier.

I can barely manage my job, even with numerous accommodations.

I am physically disabled and always in pain, it is hard to get out of bed.

I am mentally disabled and always in pain, it is hard to get out of bed.

Each of my issues compounds on the others until it all becomes a rolling, tangled mess, and I don’t know where to begin unpacking it.

The dirt beneath me is growing softer.

My body fill me with adrenaline constantly, so I don’t have to feel the pain.

The adrenaline makes me restless and twitchy, uncomfortable.

It convinces my heart to pump my ink-stained anxiety through my body more fiercely.

Previously distant thunder is rolling closer.

~~~

My anxiety feels so physical. I know where it lives - in my chest right under my rib cage, with close access to all my internal systems. It’s a permanent fixture there. Most people don’t understand me when I tell them - my anxiety is a little slimy black lump, like porridge made from an oil slick, and it spends all its time spewing out gunk. The darkness fills my lungs and enters my bloodstream, it forms a tarlike layer between my skin and my flesh. It spreads as much as it can, takes my heart and my mind in its grip, and turns everything up to eleven. Sometimes it fills me with so much pressure, I can’t help but wish I could relieve it by tearing myself open and watching everything flow out. I wonder if I would bleed black. I wonder, if I opened up the right part of my chest, could I tear out the source?

I’m digging my fingers into the dirt. It is soft now, far softer than it should be. I’m clawing at it, looking for anything firm to take hold of. The grass rips in my hands, and my body slowly begins to sink. I open my eyes and let the hood fall back, just enough so I can see the sky. The grey clouds have become almost black, and they’re swirling above me in a way I’ve never seen before. I am still sinking. When did my heart speed up? My breathing is shallow and quick. There’s tears in my eyes - from awe or from fear? I don’t know. Without looking, I throw an arm out as far as I can reach, to find some solid earth. It’s there, my palm thuds against firm ground, and I know I could go for it. But I’m not moving. If I move, if I get up, I’ll break this moment. The earth is pulling me down, my eyes are on the sky. The sun is shining weakly from behind the swirling mass of clouds. The clouds are growing rapidly; I’m sure they’ll blot it out soon. I don’t want to miss seeing it. Thunder gets closer, louder. What am I afraid of? Why aren’t I trying to move? The blackness in my chest is spreading overtime, but maybe I should just let it have me this time. I’m not thinking rationally. I don’t care. Maybe I’ll let it take over, maybe it’ll do a better job of my life than I had been. The world is getting darker. The sun is almost gone. The ground does not feel muddy - just soft and welcoming, despite how heavy the rain is. I’m still sinking. The sun is almost gone, yes, but it’s getting physically further away, too. I take a deep breath. The thunder is finally here. It sounds like it’s on top of me. The ground is shaking, the earth seems to shudder and sink faster now. I can still get up. I don’t want to get up. I should get up. I don’t get up. The sun is now gone, and as the world welcomes the darkness enveloping it, so too do I welcome the darkness filling me. I’m handing it the reins and as I do, I finally allow the earth to swallow me whole.