On Doing the Work
“You just haven’t been yourself lately.”
Right. You see, I can’t swim.
More importantly, I cannot swim and I’ve found myself treading water in the middle of the Atlantic with a hurricane whipping the sea into a frenzy all around me.
I want to die.
I’ve found myself saying this at least once a day. Sitting in the car. Alone. Staring at nothing in particular.
“Keep swimming.”
I can’t.
I never learned how.
I used to paddle from person to person. If I hold your hands, if you embrace me, if you are a brief island, then I will not drown.
But people were never meant to be anchors, gathering algae, buried in sand.
Historically, my refusal to heal has hurt the people I love.
Presently, my refusal to give up is hurting the people I love.
Someday, apologies won’t dry lungs filled with salt water.
Find the anchor. Ignore the people all around, reaching out to save you. They’ll drown under the weight of healing all the wounds that were never my choice but are now my responsibility. Find the anchor. Find the piece of yourself you know to be real and hold on for dear life.
(“Self” is quite complex for a trauma survivor)
Surfacing for air every time I put on boxing gloves. Every time I pick up a dumbbell. Every step on a run.
If I stop moving, I will die.
Punch. Breathe. Step. Move.
I’m alive.
Jab. Breathe. Cross. Breathe. Hook. Breathe. Kick. Breathe.
Clinging to this anchor, somedays by nothing except teeth and an ineffable insistence that I will persist.
Move. Breathe. Every beat of my heart a celebration. Every beat of my breath a gasp of disbelief that I woke up again. Every beat of my fist on a heavy bag like a hammer on a nail building myself a life raft.
The wind roars through me, electricity in the air around me sets my nerves on fire, I can’t tell if it’s rain or crashing waves that blur my vision, the salt in the sea or in my tears stinging the corners of my eyes.
I want to die.
But I’ll keep moving. Because motion is how I will save my life, and how I will protect everyone around me from me.