Panic Attack! Red Carpet! Berlin!

A true story about making shit up.

She holds me down by the wrist, while the other one grips my ankles and tickle tortures me with her endless scraping, scrubbing, digging. The feeling starts as prickly heat in my scalp. It radiates down my forehead and sinks throughout my vibrating being. Sweat builds in my armpits and springs from the pores on my face. My fingertips are numb, my heart has sped up like it’s at a rave, and my vision goes wobbly.

“I’m having a panic attack,” I say in slow-motion like I’m speaking through drain-o as I attempt to wrestle my limbs from their strong, calloused hands. They don’t understand me. They speak no English. None. I speak no German. They won’t let go. I wiggle and they grip tighter.

“You VIP. Must finish,” she says like a German robot.

“No VIP. Freaking out,” I respond, trying to do deep breathing. They plow through my pain, buffing and filing violently, as if they’ve forgotten I’m a real person. I writhe in the chair and the entire back of my shirt is drenched down to my ass, and I’m h…