I am swimming across an endless body of water. I cannot touch ground. I cannot take a break. And the pressure of the water is so crushing and heavy that I can't breathe. Literally everything in me wants nothing more than to give up, but I am too terrified and overwhelmed by the thought of letting myself drown. The worst part about it, apart from all of the pain, is that I don't want to swim. I don't want to fight. I don't want to see what happens if I manage to get myself out of this water. I know that even if I did, the memories of being in it all of these years would haunt me. I will never be able to look at life the same.
I want to stop swimming and just be a kid again. It wasn't easy then-- I was still swimming-- but then, I had this life jacket. I want it back. I want the security of it. I want to feel safe. I wat to feel like everything is okay.
I want to be held. I want to be fed. I want to be coddled.
I want people to care that I can't touch the bottom.
Everyone keeps breezing past me in these yachts.
They don't have to swim. They choose to swim. If they don't directly choose to swim, they all see the struggle of it as something temporary. They need to swim because it builds character. They have to swim for a little while because they always have something to swim to. They encourage their struggle. They know the exercise of it will make their muscles grow. They'll take those strong muscles and go off to do good things.
I don't have any good things to do. I don't have a yacht. Everything is too far, and I am too tired, and I hurt. Every part of me hurts. I don't wanna be alive anymore. I know I can only fight this for so long, and God, it's been eighteen years. I've spent at least thirteen of them swimming and I can't do it.
I can't do it.
I can't do it.
I won't do it.
Everyone keeps breezing past me in these yachts.
They don't stop and throw me a rope. They tell me we all have to save ourselves. They tell me that if I keep swimming, I'll one day reach shore and I can buy a yacht of my own.
But when?? I'm not making excuses for myself. I have not yet decided to lie back and let myself be taken by the waves. I have done nothing but fight. Every waking moment has been a desperate fight, yet no one pulls me out.
I know from experience that when you do drown, this is what it feels like: There's the rushing water and the force of it dragging you down to the bottom. There's the fear. There's the desperate reaching out for someone to come and save you, and there's the swallowing of endless amounts of water in some last-ditch effect to keep it from going down your trachea. But then there's a moment.
There's one magical moment where you get dragged under the waves and you're there for too long, and your limbs are tired. You open your eyes, and you can't tell down from up and though it's only been under a minute, it feels like hours-- hours where you're finally away from all of the swimming and the suffering and the fight. And nothing hurts. Everything is calm. The fear suddenly subsides. You think maybe you'll open your mouth and release what bubbles of oxygen you have in your lung into the water. Your body decides it's had enough of the thrashing. No matter of all the years of swimming you have under your belt, the water is heavier than anything you've ever carried, and you, on some subconscious level, decide to let it all go.
While it all sounds so peaceful, promising, and calming, that moment of stillness is what I fear.
I think I fear the deceit of it. Who's to say that death is any less painful than this swimming life we all live? Who's to say we won't be fighting just as hard-- feeling just as much, if not more, pain than we are now?
There was peace and stillness in the womb. We were floating. We were swimming in our amniotic fluid. We were small, and though cherished, we weren't et understood. We didn't exist as people, but we carried value as a concept. The world around us was crushing and heavy and we could not breathe on our own. We all closed out eyes for the calm, waiting for something bigger and better on the other side.
I am swimming across an endless body of water.
I want to stop swimming and just be a kid again. It wasn't easy then-- I was still swimming-- but then, I had this life jacket. I want it back. I want the security of it. I want to feel safe. I wat to feel like everything is okay.
I want to be held. I want to be fed. I want to be coddled.
I want people to care that I can't touch the bottom.
Everyone keeps breezing past me in these yachts.
They don't have to swim. They choose to swim. If they don't directly choose to swim, they all see the struggle of it as something temporary. They need to swim because it builds character. They have to swim for a little while because they always have something to swim to. They encourage their struggle. They know the exercise of it will make their muscles grow. They'll take those strong muscles and go off to do good things.
I don't have any good things to do. I don't have a yacht. Everything is too far, and I am too tired, and I hurt. Every part of me hurts. I don't wanna be alive anymore. I know I can only fight this for so long, and God, it's been eighteen years. I've spent at least thirteen of them swimming and I can't do it.
I can't do it.
I can't do it.
I won't do it.
Everyone keeps breezing past me in these yachts.
They don't stop and throw me a rope. They tell me we all have to save ourselves. They tell me that if I keep swimming, I'll one day reach shore and I can buy a yacht of my own.
But when?? I'm not making excuses for myself. I have not yet decided to lie back and let myself be taken by the waves. I have done nothing but fight. Every waking moment has been a desperate fight, yet no one pulls me out.
I know from experience that when you do drown, this is what it feels like: There's the rushing water and the force of it dragging you down to the bottom. There's the fear. There's the desperate reaching out for someone to come and save you, and there's the swallowing of endless amounts of water in some last-ditch effect to keep it from going down your trachea. But then there's a moment.
There's one magical moment where you get dragged under the waves and you're there for too long, and your limbs are tired. You open your eyes, and you can't tell down from up and though it's only been under a minute, it feels like hours-- hours where you're finally away from all of the swimming and the suffering and the fight. And nothing hurts. Everything is calm. The fear suddenly subsides. You think maybe you'll open your mouth and release what bubbles of oxygen you have in your lung into the water. Your body decides it's had enough of the thrashing. No matter of all the years of swimming you have under your belt, the water is heavier than anything you've ever carried, and you, on some subconscious level, decide to let it all go.
While it all sounds so peaceful, promising, and calming, that moment of stillness is what I fear.
I think I fear the deceit of it. Who's to say that death is any less painful than this swimming life we all live? Who's to say we won't be fighting just as hard-- feeling just as much, if not more, pain than we are now?
There was peace and stillness in the womb. We were floating. We were swimming in our amniotic fluid. We were small, and though cherished, we weren't et understood. We didn't exist as people, but we carried value as a concept. The world around us was crushing and heavy and we could not breathe on our own. We all closed out eyes for the calm, waiting for something bigger and better on the other side.
I am swimming across an endless body of water.
