Made on
Tilda
It begins not in the throat, but in the hinge of the jaw. A tiny, metallic vibration, like a trapped fly buzzing against a windowpane. You ignore it. You have been taught to ignore it.
The attack, when it comes, is not a collapse. It is a clarity . Hysteria
In the waiting room, you sit perfectly still. Your spine is a ruler. Your ankles are crossed. You smile when the receptionist calls your name. But behind your teeth, a choir is screaming. It is the sound of every errand you ever ran on four hours of sleep. The sound of every calm down whispered into your ear like a lullaby for a bomb. It begins not in the throat, but in the hinge of the jaw
And for one terrifying, glorious moment—you were the most honest thing in the room. You have been taught to ignore it
Afterward, there is the shame. The cold washcloth on the neck. The apology you do not owe anyone. You will be told you are too much . But in the quiet echo of the room, after the shaking stops, you know a secret: Hysteria is not a flaw. It is the language of a body that finally refused to lie.
Then it drops into the chest, where it nests between the ribs. It has no name yet. The doctors would call it wandering womb , an old ghost of a diagnosis, as if the body’s own longing could be a kind of demon. But you know better. It is simply the truth that would not fit into the silence.