When fear freezes you

When Fear Freezes You Today, I felt it again—the freeze. That paralyzing, suffocating stillness that PTSD brings. It’s like my body and mind disconnect, trapped somewhere between fear and helplessness. Idris went to see the doctor because of some pain he might have gotten from the gym. Something simple, something routine. But when the doctor suggested a blood and urine test “just to be sure,” I spiraled. I was at home, but my heart started racing, my chest tightened, and I couldn’t move. For two hours, I lay there frozen in bed—completely consumed by anxiety. Every possible bad outcome flashed through my mind, looping endlessly. I felt dysregulated—like my entire system was out of sync. I didn’t have the power to move, to function, to even think clearly. A mundane task, something as small as getting a glass of water, felt impossible. It’s as if my body was locked in fear, while my mind screamed to get out. It’s strange how trauma rewires you. How a simple doctor’s visit can trigger the same terror as a life-threatening moment. Ever since losing Sana, hospitals and tests have become symbols of dread. Even the thought of walking into a clinic makes me shake. I wish it weren’t this way—I wish I could breathe calmly through it, tell myself it’s just precaution, not destiny. But grief and PTSD don’t listen to logic. They sneak up quietly and take over. I know healing isn’t linear. Some days I feel strong, capable, even hopeful. But then there are days like today—when fear sits heavy in my chest, and I just miss you so much that everything feels unbearable.