Breathing

Friday the 13th, July 2012

I don’t want to turn this page. I’m afraid of the tears that will follow if I do. I’ve only survived this long because I never sit still long enough to process the questions that nag me like little flies I am always swatting away.

People have always depended on my strength, on my ability to force my own needs aside in order to support another’s weight until they’re able to stand again. All the while, no one offers to support me until I can stand. So, I just stand. I never had another option.

I still don’t know where the strength comes from to get myself out of bed every morning, when my soul is so empty and my body so weak. There is often no distinction between the reality I wake to and the dream I wake from. I live in a fog somewhere between the living and the dead, and I am neither. My feet carry me, my hands take me through the motions of living, but I know I’m not really living… I’m just breathing.

This is all familiar and safe. The world I’m gazing into, however, is not. I stand on the threshold and venture to set one foot on the path. My new friends and elders are reaching for my hand and encouraging me to find a new strength in vulnerability. It's such a foreign concept to me. Before I can reconsider, the door slams behind me and I stumble headlong onto the path.

There it is. There I am, covered in mud and blood and tears, face flushed with shame and legs too weak to raise me. My secrets, fears, bruises, scars and diseases are laid bare before this new world. All I can do now is take the hand that is reaching for me, take another breath and walk through the salty storm of tears.