Trapped and Scared

What you see is me rocking back and forth.
What you hear is me singing a Children’s song under my breath.
What you hear is my humming, my singing, my repeating words I like.

What you see is me fiddling with the bracelet around my wrist.
You think I’m a child. Young. By the way I cradle the beanie baby. By the way I’m acting.
You don’t realize that I’m 28, 28, 28, 28.

And scared.
You don’t realize that I’m overloaded. Overwhelmed.
I can hear that soda across the room.
I can feel the ink from my “tagless shirt” against my skin.
If I move so slightly, will it feel better?
If I squirm just so,  will it no longer itch?

Oh god. What is there’s a fire drill?
What if?
I’m trapped. I’m trapped in my head.
Over the anxiety. The fears. The pain.

Why is that soda still fizzing, even though the lid is on it?
Why can I hear it so clearly?
Why is the cat chewing paper? The sound is painful. It hurts me.

My senses are overwhelmed. I pull the weighted blanket over my head.
I hold the stuffed animal tighter.
I turn up the volume on Blue’s Clues, the one show that brings me comfort always.

I am scared.
I am trapped.
I am completely locked in my own head.

The sensory nightmare doesn’t stop. Nothing feels safe.
I am trapped. I am alone.

Everything is crashing around me.
I am scared. I am lonely.

I just want silence. Silence.
But I’m trapped. I’m overloaded.

This is my life. 

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