A small but growing part of me is convinced that I am secretly meant to be alone and, God hasn’t had the heart to tell me yet. That I’m just a little too…or a little not enough…or the wrong kind of crazy to have a life compatible with anyone else’s.
I’m proud of my life. But it’s taken me so long to get to a place of function, and now that I’m here it takes all of my effort not to slide back into oblivion. I’m not moving forward. In the ocean of life, my epic odyssey is a doggie paddle to keep head above water.
I can’t help but be envious of the team rowers and the synchronized swimmers who don’t seem fazed by wind or wave. That’s right, in this analogy we’re all in the ocean. And I’m the one who is not-drowning.
You know that kid, right? That one who is swimming ok until she unexpectedly splashes water into her own face and assumes she is drowning. She will flail against her own flailing until she realizes she has never been in danger, and announces more to herself than the unconcerned crowd that she is ok. She’ll scan the horizon for one expression of relief to connect with – one SOUL who cares that she is alive – one SOUL to be her MATE – because she believes that is EXACTLY what a spark of eye contact on the damp surface of her unstable existence would indicate. She’ll find the horizon empty every time.
Spaz in the water.