Now Im cryin - isnt that what you want
Im tryin to live my life on my own
But I wont
At times - I do believe I am strong
So someone tell me why, why, why
Do i, i, I feel stupid
And I came undone
And I came undone
I need you now
Do you think you can cope
You figured me out - Im lost and Im hopeless
Bleeding and broken - though Ive never spoken
I swear, I think matchbox twenty has followed me around and written songs that are just spot on, when it comes to my life.
I've written about this before, but one of the most painful things about my depressive episodes, are the number of people places and things that get neglected and then have to be tended to.
I'm full of apologies. I'm full of remorse. I'm full of frustration.
And, not helping matters at all - I am "fragile."
I've always liked that term. I'm not nuts. I'm not a whacko. I'm not cruel, selfish, narcissitic, I'm just fragile.
I am me, whole and complete, but please don't make any sudden moves, because I could shatter at any minute. I don't live in your world of Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer. I am living in my Mad Season. Sigh. Between the meds and moods, it is as if there is no solid ground under my feet. Worse than that. I am trying to get my bearings, and i have no feet, no legs to stand on.
Here, I'll put a picture of my feet up there (sorry Chyrsti). That's proof, right? There they are. Polka dots and painted toes. Yep, those hoofers have got to be mine..
Here is what my life is like right now, as I try to walk on this imaginary earth where a rug has been pulled out from under me, as I try to right wrongs, and assimilate the fact that I can make mistakes but that I am still worthwhile. That LIFE remains worthwhile:
Seven years ago, I discovered surfing. As in, on a surfboard - not the computer. This was just after my mother had died. I mean literally weeks or maybe a month or so. I had a friend at work who had been surfing for years, and somehow - in the way that this universe hands down Grace in great big handfuls, this friend of mine looked at me and recognized that what I needed was a heavy dose of the sea all around me. The sea whose tides had pulled me out of a suicide attempt so many years ago. The sea where my mother's ashes were scattered.
And I loved it. I loved paddling out, I loved ducking under the incredible strength and purpose of each incoming wave. I loved sitting or lying on my board, out behind the break, waiting for the right wave to come in.
And I loved the waves that carried me, faster than I could believe possible, smooth and hard both at the same time. Both at the same time, over and over, every metaphor for living and its Grace filled me with what I needed then. I will never regret that time in my life. Waking up at 4 a.m. so that I could go surf in the mornings before work. Falling, tumbling, and finally, standing on all that wild water. I'll never forget.
SO, at the end of that particular summer, my friend and I decided to take a surf vacation to Honolulu. We packed nothing by bathing suits, tshirts, and surf shorts. We stayed at a hotel a few blocks off the beach, and we woke early every morning to get out on the water before the sloppy tourists or grumpy expert Hawaiian surfers began to crowd the water.
But one day, we decided to set our boards aside and take a side trip to snorkle. Now, I had never snorkled before. But I didn't even have even one moment of hesitation. We would go to a beach that was reputed to have incredible tide pools and an extraordinary underwater variety of life forms.
At this point, I love the ocean, I loved the tides, I loved life.
Look at me there. I look like someone who is brave and purposeful, don't I?
I look like I am experiencing something fun, something adventurous. I love my right (left to you) hand in the picture, it is reaching and pushing at the same time.
But here's the thing. I'm paddling, as quickly as possible, back toward the shore.
Not because there was a menacing eel or hungry shark in sight.
Not because I had stomach cramps or had cut my leg on some of that insidious Hawaiian coral.
No. I was paddling backward, desperate for the shore, because, as it turns out - snorkling made me terribly claustrophobic.
It started immediately. As soon as I put my face down into the water, I began to feel tight and afraid and worst of all, scared to breath.
My friend didn't really believe me at first when I pulled my head up and out of the water and explained that I HAD to get back to shore, that this just wasn't really for me.
"Oh but we haven't even seen anything yet!"
It didn't matter. I was embarrassed and felt that I was letting her down, but I had to get back to shore.
Ok, that's a strange place to end that story, and maybe you can't see the connection, well - because you aren't in my shoes (my red polka dot flip flops. Ha!)
But what I see, is that I am right back where I was, in that water, nice and snug with the right equipment (meds, doctors, supportive family and friends), but I am so very afraid to breathe.
The Universe would have me know that I should keep moving forward, because I haven't seen anything yet.
But, why am I expected to take such huge leaps of faith, when I am - remember - fragile.
One should never take a huge leap anywhere, when they are carrying something fragile, much less if that fragile thing is their heart.
But, I am so far out now. I am claustrophic, afraid to breathe, feel like a coward, and I can see neither what lies ahead, or the shore.
Sigh. And that is what I am contemplating on this fine Sunday morning.
Here is to hoping that your shore is firmly below your feet, or that the arms of your soul are swimming swiftly in the right direction.
Either way. Happy Sunday.
Me? I'm hanging in there.
xoxo - Chel