The Intake

It’s near-impossible to stifle—a verb that means to cut off; to muffle; to smother—what the brain wants, which isn’t more air but to put out the fire: yawning is believed to play a role in cooling the brain during an anxiety attack—a cool fact by any measure except mid-drive when the tingling climbs my hands and arms, skipping over my chest and neck to settle in one eye—always the left, I don’t know why, twitching like a caught fish so I yawn harder but my breath won’t catch, a big door latch swinging open but never shut when what I need is to breathe out, not in, all that air built up like a balloon about to burst, and what happens if I faint? I won’t even text at red lights; I’m a fan of Do Not Disturb and all other automatic replies, so it makes sense that the hypothalamus and limbic system might play a role in yawning and other drives all geared for survival. Never mind that the threat isn’t real. Never mind that I don’t launch into flight, let alone fight. No, my brain says freeze, with the difference being, now I recognize it: the tripped signals, the automatic intake to cool it, cool it. So I lengthen each exhale until the need is extinguished. I turn off my hazards.  I shift into drive, leaving the breakdown lane.