I’m laying on the cold hard ground inside of a rusty dark closet. I am trying to calm my breathing, and I am trying to stop the tears that won’t stop flowing. I am almost to the point of passing out, and I feel vomit creeping up my throat. I feel my insides filling up with fluid, and I feel the shadow of shame creep over my thoughts. I begin my usual routine when this happens. I rapidly type an apology note on my iPhone, begging for love and forgiveness. I creep out of the closet only to find him smugly sitting on the couch watching a show. Scared to look him in the eye, I hand him my phone and beg him to read the note. He puts the phone down and smiling says “I can’t deal with you when you cry like this; it’s an embarrassment, so you need to go back into the closet.” I feel light headed and think back to how when I met him, he would hold me close and whisper sweet lullabies in my ear until I felt better. I wouldn’t even admit to myself, that he was the one who caused the panic attack I was having.
