That Feeling When Everything Falls Apart
It’s been an eventful *checks calendar* 10 months. I would love to say I’ve been busy creating and writing, but that would be a lie.
Life gets in the way a lot more than I care for. And even when I have the time to create or write, I don’t have the energy. And this isn’t just about having ADHD. While yes, there is research to suggest a high correlation between insomnia, circadian rhythm disorders and ADHD, this time it’s mostly just…life.
I’m not going to get into the details here, but there is something I wrote that I am going to share. So for this episode of J’s Musings, I leave you with The Boat.
I lay adrift a small piece of splintered wood, the ocean threatening to engulf me. Cold rain pelts my face, but I stare up to the night sky anyway. Maybe the answers are hidden amongst the dark, churning clouds, scribbled on the rain drops, or found in the endless watery depths surrounding my little vessel.
It doesn’t matter.
There’s no shore in sight. Most people will swim and swim towards that mirage of safety and happiness, but after the latest storm destroyed my boat, I stopped believing the shore even existed.
The rain is cold and my hands are numb and I haven’t the strength to kick my legs anymore. So instead, I float.
I’ve been here before.
Not this particular spot, but one similar. I’ve been in oceans like this my whole life. But this… This was different. This was my home—what used to be my home.
I remember the boat so easily. I had painted it orange, your favorite color. I had added decals and vinyl stickers and re-finished the oars and crocheted the rope to tie it to the dock. I was proud. I thought you were, too.
After a few years, the paint began peeling. Instead of stripping the coat and trying again, I painted over the spots quickly. I didn’t want to see the wood underneath; the truth etched into the grain.
When I rowed with one oar, I would only sail in circles. Occasionally you’d row with me, and we’d make progress across the sea. I didn’t know our destination, but I didn’t care because you were with me.
Sometimes I’d have to row with both oars. My hands calloused, my back ached, but I rowed anyway. You were tired. You were troubled. It was okay, you could rest; I would take care of you.
The rain is cold. My hands are numb. I kiss my blue fingertips and struggle to recall how soft your lips were when pressed to mine. Or how warm your hands were when you’d tuck my hair behind my ears. It’s all gone now.
Another wave washes over my legs, salt stinging still-bleeding wounds. The gashes I had overlooked are infected now, oozing with putrid heartache and trickles of red-hot anger. I gave all my bandages to you, even as I screamed with pain.
Once again, I am left with nothing but the air in my tired lungs.
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