Overstimulation

My eyes are filling up with tears again. They sneak in the way storms do on heavy summer afternoons—quiet at first, then impossible to ignore once they roll in. I clench my teeth together, holding my jaw so tight it feels as though the bones themselves might crack. The muscles burn, a dull ache that spreads from the hinge near my ear down into my neck. I don’t even notice I’m doing it until it hurts. And then I notice, but I still can’t seem to stop. My whole face feels locked, frozen in a grimace no one can see but me.



The air goes in and out of my lungs in sharp bursts, too fast, too shallow—the exact opposite of what the breathing exercises say to do. *In through the nose, out through the mouth. Count to four. Relax.* The voices of every therapist, every yoga video, every meditation app rattle through my head like instructions on a broken machine. I know what I’m supposed to do, but the knowledge doesn’t connect to the body. My chest won’t listen. It rises and falls like it’s sprinting a race, even though I’m sitting completely still.



I don’t know why I keep trying to hold back my tears. It’s always a losing battle, but I fight it every time as if this will finally be the day I manage to win. I blink hard, once, twice, and that’s all it takes. The tears slide out anyway, slow and heavy, carving hot little rivers down my face. My skin prickles where the wetness lingers. It slips into the curve of my ear, pooling there in a way that makes me shiver, though I’m already hot. My nose starts to run. Of course it does. *Great. Perfect. Exactly what I needed right now.*



I almost made it the whole day without crying. Almost.



The weight of my cat, sprawled across my lap like a living blanket, shifts against me. His paws knead softly against my thigh as if he’s trying to settle me, to hold me in place. Usually it helps, that gentle rhythm, but right now the pressure of his body feels like it’s strangling me. My throat tightens as though invisible hands are squeezing from the inside. Dryness creeps up from my tongue to the back of my throat, making it harder to swallow.



I drag in another breath—sharp, too sharp—and it scrapes at my lungs. My body won’t let me relax, no matter how much I want to. The blanket wrapped around me feels suffocating. I want to fling it off, push him away, and bolt for the porch where at least the air is open and cool. A part of me knows that’s what I need: the wide sky, the hush of crickets, the smell of damp earth. Fresh air might soothe the fire under my skin. But another part of me is rooted to this chair, unwilling to move, unable to break the moment.



Heat pulses through me in waves. My shirt sticks to my back, damp with sweat, and my scalp prickles as though tiny sparks are trapped beneath the skin. I think of ways to calm down—grasping at them like lifelines. Maybe a bath. Yes, a bath would help. The hot water could wrap me up and wash away the tension, loosen my clenched muscles, quiet the static in my head. Or maybe the reishi mushroom tincture on the counter. People say it balances you out, helps the nervous system. I could try that. I’ve already taken an edible earlier, though it hasn’t hit yet. I can’t decide if that was smart or a mistake.



The irony doesn’t escape me: the very things meant to soothe me come with their own anxieties. *Will it work? Will it make me worse? Am I just chasing remedies instead of dealing with the real problem?* I don’t even know what the real problem is.



My cat lifts his head, blinking at me with slow, deliberate eyes. I’ve read somewhere that cats do that when they trust you—when they want you to know they mean no harm. It’s strange, but sometimes I feel like he knows more about my moods than I do. He always appears when the tears come, like he’s been watching from the doorway and waiting for the right moment to step in.



The weight of his chest presses lightly against mine. His purr is low, steady, a vibration that buzzes against my ribs. Little by little, it shifts something inside me. My body is still tense, but the storm isn’t raging quite so violently now. The tears slow. My breaths, though still shaky, begin to find a rhythm that doesn’t scrape like broken glass. My thoughts untangle enough to make sense again, though they still hum at the edges.



For the first time in what feels like hours, I can think.



And the first thought that comes is this: How long can I keep living like this?