The Psycho(sis)somatics

I sit on my bed, chain-smoking despite my throat already burning. There’s a foreign object in my gullet in the size of a volleyball. I try to breathe it away, but the concrete elephant on my chest refuses to let air into my lungs. In my head, a monster is banging pots and pans together, screaming; words that first make sense morph into a cacophony of voices, blending with the sound of sirens and swelling into an orchestra of hysterically laughing, discordant violins echoing in my ears. The concrete elephant bounces out of rhythm on my insides. Bile rises in my throat. I notice that a friend is speaking to me, but I can barely understand a word. I wish I could tell them how my inner demons are tearing my body apart, but the stone in my throat condemns me to silence. Beads of sweat form on my forehead. Claws force my eyes wide open, but I see everything as if through a tunnel. I fantasize about cutting the lump out of my throat with a butcherknife. Suddenly, it’s over. Silence. I take a deep breath. “Are you okay?” they ask. “Yes, thank you,” I reply, breaking into tears