The amount of stuff I feel saturates me sometimes to the point of puking. I want to vomit it all out to be rid of it, or else it will suffocate me. Physically. A hand of anxiety will plant its meaty fingers on my chest and push down until I choke. 

I used to ignore this and channel it inward and get sick, in the body and in the mind. I didn't understand where it was coming from. That's what everyone did, especially everyone in Russia. Our lovely cultural upbringing can be summarized thusly: hide it, hide it, hide it. Push it in. I got so good at this, it's difficult to resist the familiar urge.