The panic attack strikes again, this time harder than ever before. I have to close my eyes as my vision blurs, and I sit on the edge of my bed, gripping the sheets. so hard that my fingers hurt, but the pain is good; it reminds me that I'm still here and it gives me something to stay focused on. I struggle to inhale, but it feels like my lungs have stopped working and I'm gasping for breath, my breathing short and shaky. The lump in my throat grows bigger and bigger and I force myself to relax, to breathe. I want to rip my skin off, get rid of it and run, run as fast as humanly possible. But this island is small and I wouldn't go far anyway. I feel like time has been distorted. I suddenly feel trapped, like no matter where I go or what I do, I can't escape. Escape from what, I have no idea. I just want to be free. My thoughts have become disjointed and it's hard to keep track of things because I'm so focused on the random thoughts running through my mind. A pair of vivid green eyes come into my mind, clear as daylight, and I shudder, my stomach heaving in disgust. But then they disappeared, replaced by a single obsessive thought. I'm going to dieI'm going to dieI'm going to dieI'm going to die.Breathe, Tori! I am educating myself. Inside, outside. Enter, exit. Slowly, my heart returns to a normal, familiar rhythm, and yet my fingers are still slightly numb. I sit there for a few minutes, eyes closed, the sound of waves crashing against each other drifting in through my open window. I focus on that sound, on the feeling of the cool breeze against my overheated skin, on the eternal smell of salt water that always seems to follow me everywhere, clinging to my hair, my clothes, my skis. .... middle of paper ...... about, and since it's about 3:29 a.m., naturally my mind would much rather stress than sleep at this point. You have a doctor's appointment at ten o'clock. Then you will know for sure if you have something. My heart starts beating faster at the thought of going to the doctor. Most sixteen year old girls aren't afraid to go to the doctor. But I am. Because they always ask these personal questions. And I just know they're going to ask this question. Because they always do. And I don't know how to answer it. At least, not for three months, when… No. I breathe deeply, keeping my heart rate at a normal level, even though it's definitely a struggle. No, I won't allow myself to think about it. Not yet. Never, perhaps. I roll over in bed and glance at the digital clock on my nightstand. 3:33. Great. It's going to be a long night.