ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ || тѕυккιуαмα ||

73

~~~

It wasn't the panic attack that left a bad taste in my mouth, but the fact I couldn't hold back from knocking one of Hino's teeth out.

No, it wasn't the panic attack that left a bad taste in my mouth at all. It was what occurred during that intense shut down—the flashes of what my mother did to me after saying the word Hino spat so casually.

The word that held an overwhelming amount of significance and derangement and trauma.

My fingertips lost all feeling for the rest of the day, still sizzling from the previous attack that now lingered at the ends of my entire body. And the casual tremble I usually produced was more severe as well, noticeably rattling the floor boards when I'd walk or vibrate the tone of my voice when I tried to stay calm.

I wanted to forget about her—So desperately, I wanted to erase her memory completely from the insides of my subconscious. And, for the first time in a few days, it felt as if I was moving backwards once again. Back into the mindset of that frightful child who was too afraid of everyone that could be a threat.

"...describe your mother." The psychiatrists hesitant voice nudged it's way through the thick tension of our room.

It was a normal question, although he hadn't asked it for the past 5 days... so why was he bringing it to light again?

I took a small breath. "Brown hair and long nails." The words escaped under a whisper almost—feeling this deep numbness while simultaneously keeping the jittery aftermath of my panic attack was exhausting.

And a draining experience really—the anxious yet desensitized mood I had. But it wasn't new, in fact, it almost comforted me from the familiarity of it all.

I knew that wasn't healthy, but I didn't have the energy to restrain from the feeling.

"...what's she like?" The deep voice spoke up again, making me flinch before pressing my hands together.

I didn't hesitate, spewing out whatever popped into my head because the thought of reminiscing about that monster was something I only wanted to avoid. "Manipulative and scary and depressed." I answered nonchalantly.

The same question; a different answer.

Something in that rattling room changed, but I didn't notice—the way my body language shifted at the drop of a broken record. Shattering the tension that I previously remembered being demolished 5 days ago.

Maybe I was moving backwards—or maybe I hadn't even began move in the first place... because right now felt different.

"What she did to you, Yamaguchi... it wasn't your—it's not your fault." My psychiatrist responded after a second. "And how you behave in response isn't your fault either. Remember that." He finished and the words didn't float around as they used to.

No, they stuck to the air and lingered before sinking very deeply into my chest—my soul while I nodded slowly.

But it didn't make sense; I should be able to control myself better—to restrict before harming myself or lashing on my boyfriend or socking the hell out of a liar. Why are my unhinged breakdowns so easy to pass up by everyone?