Driving. With rain sliding down the windows, too dark to see much beyond the headlights and taillights rolling ahead and towards me.
I have the music turned too loud to really think clear thoughts, it almost stings my ears a little.  
Pin picks of memories are pushing through the lower subconscious of my mind
I can feel the cavity below my ribcage expanding slightly as I'm trying to let everything in.
Stuck between shallow breathing and taking too deep of raged breathes.
I never liked the sound of my own breathing.
It always seemed cruel that I was allowed the one natural courtesy that my father was eventually denied.
Sometimes I hear the ringing of hospital bells in my ears when it's too quiet.
It's been 7 years.

This can't be it, this can't be it I think as I slide my hands over the wheel turning too hard onto my street with itching palms and dry lips
This can't be everything that we are lined up for marching in and out of office buildings and hospital waiting rooms, born to live, live to die hands turned up and out pushing past the next person in line because
when I was younger
I used to stand in the middle of my backyard
and hold really still
staring at the sun motes that twirled in the leaves of the trees
holding really still until I heard a hawk scream loud enough to send my heart sky rocketing and knees driving through the grass and to the front door
They call that "Checking In"
a way 6 year olds way of making sure I was still alive
It's been 7 years
I don't know how to be still anymore.