Even as a kid. I could spend hours in the pool in our backyard, I would kick my legs and look like a frog. The swimming in my mind has always been a little different, though.
I've been swimming for years. At first, things were ok--I'm a strong swimmer, I'm smart, I have a good head on my shoulders, I know when to rest and I know my own limits. But then, the current gets a bit stronger. The wind gets a bit cooler, and I start shivering. Before I knew it, I'm not in my little happy pond anymore--I was stuck in the middle of the ocean, and I had no way to get back. I lost a major source of support in my life, and I drove him away in the aftermath of that, but that was only the catalyst for something that had been building for at least the past five years.*
I'm still swimming, my arms are tired and my legs are weak and shaky and my mouth is filled with salt and algae. Some days, I feel like I'm drowning. I have come so, so close to drowning, closer than anybody realizes. Closer than I've let myself acknowledge. I've been on the edge of letting it win, giving up, throwing in the towel and floating indefinitely.
But I've got water wings. And sometimes, the most you can ask of yourself is to admit you need a little help every now and then.
I've been breaking, and I know I've worried all of you. I know you're probably angry, and upset, and feel completely lost and helpless--I know because that's what I've been the past four months, and then some. I know you all saw me destroying myself long before I did, you saw me fall so many times I've lost count. You saw me. Not always at my worst, I think only one person other than me has seen that, but thank you for not letting me drown. Thank you for keeping me afloat when I just couldn't anymore--for offering beds to sleep in and canvases to paint on and laps to cry in.
I'm not kidding myself, this won't be easy. I need to pull myself out of this water and find sand and dry land, and it's been so long since my feet have touched solid ground that I don't know what it really feels like anymore. But I miss it. I look forward to days laying in the sand, feeling sunlight for the first time in months.
* in all honesty, it could potentially be more around 8 years.
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I am beginning to suspect that my borked up metaphors and horrible imitations of ducks may actually have an effect on you, more so than most of my normal talking does. I pledge to use more weird metaphors for perspective and such when it is required. As always, I ask that you tell me to STFU if I'm being annoying or if I'm going too far with the metaphor.
ReplyDeleteDon't forget, when your arms and legs are tired, you can always do sculling. It's like floating, but with water wings and still moving a little bit, only more slowly and rest-like. We should totally go to the pool some time.
Also, I forget which medication it was you told me about that I read about on wikipedia. Either way, one of them got me to
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anorgasmia
It made me think of you, especially in the first section.
I've read about anorgasmia before, and it sounds about right. If I'm having difficulty with that while unmedicated, being medicated is gonna be a blast. :/ Although I'm not sexually active, so it doesn't really matter.
ReplyDeleteBut yes. I think I can manage some sculling, I just need to float for a bit and really rest. And it's a really appropriate metaphor, hence why I wrote a blog post expanding it.
Rock on. And by the way, you're totally still a strong swimmer.
ReplyDeleteThere you go again, you with your "Rock on" phrasing.
ReplyDeleteAnd yeah. But my legs and arms get really tired, and I'm asthmatic so my lungs give out pretty easy and I get all huffy puffy like a Hufflepuff.
But yes. Strong swimmer. That's me.
Lisa, you should be a writer of some sort. You feel the true emotions coming out of the words. And pretty well every sentence flows into the next. And it really is beautiful, despite how depressing and saddening your writings are.
ReplyDeleteOn a sidenote: is this Tell Lisa She Could Be a Writer Night? You're the second person to tell me that.
ReplyDeleteMore seriously: I write what I know. I just wish I could write about something different and really mean it. But, thank you.