Ever since I was little, the playground in our neighborhood has kind of been my happy place. Whenever I felt really down or had a rough day, I’d walk down the street and end up on the bright blue swingset. It was old and worn out, the chains rusty and the paint chipped. But honestly, it just felt like home to me. Swaying in the swing always seemed to relax me.

One muggy summer afternoon, late in August, I found myself in the swing again, but that day it didn’t seem to have it’s usual effect on me. It had been a long day and I was stressed out with all the little things inside my head. I kicked my legs out and back in, reaching higher and faster to clear my mind. After a few moments passed, I let out a frustrated sigh. Would this feeling ever leave, or am I stuck with this sticky, achy pit in my stomach?

As I had done many times before, I leapt off the swing right as it reached its apex, intending to make my way home.

PAIN.

In an instant, I was on the ground, trying desperately to gasp air. I found myself battered by waves of retching, heaving sobs. Flames split my skin, hammers beat my skull.

I scream.