One by one, as I sit in an ocean of silence in my preternaturally still home, my stresses and worries, buried deep by days of distractions, pop to the surface. They bob and flash, buoys daring me to ignore them.
Staying busy keeps them at bay. Too busy to look at the pile of mail on the table. To read those emails from the bank. To feel alone. Treading water may not get me anywhere, but it’s better than drowning.
When I sink like a stone, my breath comes to me in shallow, pitiful gasps and my vision dims, obscured by a haze that probes and pokes and jeers. My strengths and values and confidence transform in an instant, pushing on my chest with exponential strength.
It’s too much. The only solution is to keep going down, in the dank trenches, where the darkness snuffs out any semblance of hope. There’s no way to throw off the weight, to distinguish between up and down, to draw one more breath. It’s impossible.
Except for these words.
The unvarnished black on white draws me back to see the larger picture. The keyboard clicks with a comforting rhythm, each word a beacon. I find myself prodded gently towards the surface.
Writing doesn’t make everything okay.
It just shows me that it will be.