You and I used to fuel ourselves with oxytocin. We would lie in bed for hours – not eat, not sleep, just bury ourselves in one another's love. The hormone would secrete out of our pores, into the space cocooning us, and then settle back onto the opposite's body with a sigh. If the space around us had a soundtrack it would be the 'ooh's, 'aah's, and giggles of a Parisian love story. Eventually, after hours of whispers, love making, and kisses you would say, "Alright babe, my body can no longer survive purely on oxytocin." We'd rouse to get you some food.
The oxytocin that used to sustain me is flickering out like the dying wick of a candle. My body craves touch. Your touch. My heart had learned to beat in tune with yours. She quieted down, listened for the echo in your chest, and set her pace with yours – happy to have a mate to pulse with. But now she strains to hear you and you aren't there. My heart is tired.
Over the past week I took a dip. I celebrated life – yours, mine, ours. I celebrated the past year – the good, the beauty, the love. Then once this year arrived, I stopped in my tracks like a deer in headlights. In a sense, I laid down in the road and allowed myself to be run over. I felt the pain. I crawled under my covers and turned out the lights. I stopped moving. I hoped that when I fell asleep I wouldn't wake up – that I would drift off to be with you again. I was supposed to be with you.
I don't believe in suicide. I have a hard time respecting it as a choice for others and I certainly do not for myself. In my belief system, I think that exiting life by your own hand signs you up for karmic debt. I think it's a cop out for the lessons we are meant to learn in this life. Life is a gift, even in suffering. Even in the most painful of times, I refuse to believe that human life is ruled by a dark force. So, I know I would never take that route. I am too stubborn. I am too proud. I am too afraid. But, over the past week, I've wanted to drift off to the other side with you, accidentally. Just slip away, into thin air, like you did. One moment you were there – talking, breathing, loving, making promises – and the next you were gone – you were dust, ashes, memories, history, just a dream. I have felt that the only true happiness I will ever feel again, is whenever, wherever I can find you.
Today I decided to make a shift out of the darkness, one of many small shifts that are a part of this rollercoaster ride on the Sea of Shit. I decided that today, I would unglue my chin from my throat. I would lift my gaze from the mud to the clouds. Clouds though they may be, I know behind them is clear, somewhere.
I filled my day up with action. Small things – call the plumber, fold the laundry, shave my legs, call my mom, change the oil, get my dog groomed. These small tasks that seem so ordinary to the layman are like climbing Mount Everest for the grieving. When I can hardly stick my toe out from under my comforter and place my foot onto the earth, going to the grocery store seems like running a marathon with no training, food, or water. My body feels thirty times heavier then it actually is. I tried to move it at times over the past week and all I could do was lay on the ground and beg the Earth to keep holding me, to not let me go.
But today I made it up. I made it out of the house. And I accomplished a lot. In fact, I accomplished a lot for a normal, non-suffering person if I do say so myself. And it felt good. And feeling good, when you're grieving, is like being able to take one breath of air without gasping.
My intention for the day was "Operation: Seratonin". I figured since I can no longer live on oxytocin, I should fuel myself on other natural uppers. I took supplements that I know help me feel better: 5-Htp, Lumiday, St. Johns Wart, Stress-B Complex, Ashwaganda, and GABA. I got out of bed before nine. I ate food. And later in the day, I went to the pool.
My best friend had recommended that maybe swimming would be helpful during this time. She said it might be peaceful to float. Now, considering moving from my bed to the toilet has seemed like a walking on a tight rope across the Grand Canyon, my hopes weren't high. But once I submerged myself in the salt water, it was as though I had tapped into a resource of power deep in my body. I started to swim laps. I started to pass other swimmers. I moved to a faster lane. I started to swim how I can only imagine Michael Phelps swims – super fucking fast. I just kept swimming. I gave myself permission to take the next breath. And then the next breath. And then the next breath. When the tears came, it was OK. No one could see them and I couldn't even feel them because I was already submersed in salt water. I glided forward in the water. Just a little further, I told myself. Just a little further. Until I had no other option – forward motion was the only possible way. I didn't want to stop. Finally, swim team practice started and they made me leave the pool. I had probably swam from Alcatraz to San Fransisco. When I got out of the water, I felt the endorphins rushing through my body. Even when the heart is full of sorrow, the body reminds us of our strength. "Hang in there," my body told my heart, "I know you feel alone, but I've gotcha."
After my swim, I took a steam and then I went to yoga. I continued to ring myself out. I took the sludge, the buildup, the tar, the darkness, the anger, the guilt, the grief, the torture, and the pain and attempted to clean out a layer of it. But I realized that once I accelerate, it's easier to push forward. I remembered how being kind to myself comes more naturally than being cruel. Being hopeful is more inherent than being forlorn.
I'll never be fueled by oxytocin and love the way I was with you. But I still have the power to be lifted up. I will try to climb out of the dark holes and see a bit of sky, no matter how treacherous the clouds seem. When I feel suffocated by my own tears, I will swim in them. I'll remind myself of what I love about me – about the me that is still whole. While you are no longer here, as much as I fight it, you can't take me with you. That's just not how this life works. So I am here. And you are there. But we are still a part of the same stardust.
Showing posts with label swim. Show all posts
Showing posts with label swim. Show all posts
Innocence Found
I was a swimmer as a child. Swim lessons from the age of two – paddling from mom to dad in a waterlogged diaper, living on the beach in Jamaica at six – running up and down the shore, topless and smiling, bleach-blonde hair and my face painted. By the time I was seven years old and back in Ohio I was on the swim team. I remember the YWCA pool very well. Monday, Wednesday, Friday in the off season – six days a week, sometimes twice a day, in the winter season. The water was always a touch too cold with suspicious warm spots as you moved through. I remember the scent of chlorine meets AquaSwim shampoo in the locker room shower. I can still feel the athlete's foot, in fact to this day, it never quite entirely cleared up. I can hear the shouts of our coach, Cheryl, commanding us to swim the next 100m faster. "Kick harder! Harder! Harder!" I'd hear her yells on every inhale when I turned my little cheek to breathe in. She moonlighted as a swim coach, her daytime gig was across the street as a warden for the inner city youth jail. Let's just say she knew how to get results in kids.
At the end of practice, we'd swim our cool-down, maybe 4 or 8 lengths of the pool. That was when I had my favorite moments. You see, when I was a child I used to believe that I had been mermaid once. I had complete faith in life under the sea. The Little Mermaid was my bible. I eventually got teased for it. Anyone who knew me in elementary school will remember taunting me with the nickname 'Mermaid Girl'. But then, I was full of wonder.
During my last few laps of the pool, I would take a deep breath and dive down into the water. I would channel my inner Ariel and dolphin kick my legs as I dove deep. I would open my eyes, letting the chlorine into burn my retinas and gaze at everything there was to see down there at the bottom of the pool. Mind you, there was not much to see: stray hairbands, a swim cap, a lost fin, a dead bug, a hairball, maybe a shiny coin if I was lucky. I would strap on my imagination and pretend I was back in the ocean waters I had explored in Jamaica. I would imagine colorful fish swimming effortlessly in sparkling schools, bright red and blue coral that grew so quickly you could almost watch it rise towards the heavens, large rays that gracefully slid across the ocean floor casting shadows on the sea floor like clouds from the sky. Maybe there would be a treasure chest, spilling over with gold coins and colorful rubies and emeralds. While I was reasonably fast, the pool was far too distracting for me to be taken too seriously as a competitor in a race. Instead, the water was my world, my secret garden of underwater adventure. A blue or red ribbon was just bonus points.
When I was nine, we moved to Belize for a year. Again, the ocean was my oyster! I would play in the water for hours. I'd watch fish soar through underground playgrounds with an easy sense of cooperation. Did you know that an entire school of fish vote on which way they'll go by a simple turn of the head? After 51% of the fish look one way, the whole school switches direction instantaneously and without missing a beat. (Imagine if people were like that... but I digress.) I remember jumping off of a motor boat to go snorkeling. Once submerged, I turned back towards the boat to catch the eye of my mom who was about to jump in. I noticed the shadow of something under the boat. It was a huge nurse shark. But it was a time in my life when I was fearless. Until I wasn't.
Two occurrences on that trip broke me and my innocent, imaginative relationship with water.
We went on a day trip to a tiny island with only three palm trees on it. The adults, armed with mediocre weed and coolers of beer, had a beach party. I decided to catch hermit crabs and organize a race for the party goers. Each person chose a crab. I drew a circle in the sand and put all the crabs in the middle. The first one out of the circle was the winner. I was the maestro supreme! Later that day, we went for a snorkel. As we swam along the reef, I remember watching a barracuda and a huge mantra ray swim by. I was still fearless. I understood that I was a part of the whole ecosystem. We are not a drop of the ocean, we are the entire ocean in a drop.
We began to swim over a huge bed of coral. The guide, whose English was not great, instructed me NOT to touch the coral. "Fire coral!" he yelled. He pointed at the coral all around me. It appeared to be centimeters from my skin. The objects in water are closer than they appear, but I did not know that at the time. He continued to yell at me, "Fire coral! Fire coral! Do not touch. Will burn!" He pointed to a nasty scar engulfing his leg. It looked like a parasite joined up with a shark bite and then the infection festered on his calf. In my mind now, I know there is no way he got that injury from fire coral. But in my nine-year-old brain, I was screwed. I hovered over the water, regressing from freestyle to a doggy paddle immediately. I was paralyzed by fear mid-snorkle. My parents had to lure me out of the water. I have been frightened of coral ever since. I can hardly swim in the ocean without fear of the coral grabbing me in it's rocky mitts and burning my body while it pulls me down and drowns me.
Later that year the other event happened that scarred me and destroyed my blooming career as a mermaid. Again, I was on the beach catching crabs. Let's face it, I liked to catch crabs as a little girl. All jokes aside, they were sand crabs. (Let it be known that I have never actually had crabs.) I had made friends with an older boy, Mario, on the beach. In Belize, many of the young girls were encouraged to help their mothers in the home, so much of my outdoor roaming time was either alone or with boys.
Mario convinced me that there would be more crabs in the brackish water of the mangrove swamp down the beach. It was further than I was aloud to go and my parents weren't around to ask, so I was wary. He convinced me it would be quick and bountiful. I was a bit of a rebel, so I went along with it.
Inside the mangrove forest, the floor of the ocean was almost like quicksand. My little legs were getting stuck in the sticky, muddy earth. I was distracted from the hunt as I tried to un-stick myself from the ground. I thought Mario was setting a trap from a crab, but apparently, he had a different intention. When I looked up from my battle with the sediment, moments later – he had exposed himself to me. A small, brown, uncircumcised, erect, teenage penis pointed at me. Pants down, he started towards me. All in one swift inhale, I felt confusion, surprise, curiosity, guilt, excitement, anger, and fear.
As Mario sludged his way through the mud to me, I felt the mud floor free my ankles. It was as though the earth had taken my side in the battle. I braced myself by grabbing onto the distended roots of the mangrove trees that surrounded me and lifted my body up out of the water. Without much forethought, I used one of my free legs to swiftly kick Mario square in the junk, hard. As he cowered in pain, I took off running. Suddenly, the floor of that swamp was as solid and buoyant as the turf on a track. I had the distinct feeling that something greater was helping me fight back and run away. When I escaped from the mangrove swamp, there was a golf cart driving by with a small search party on it. They had been looking for me. I hopped aboard and zipped my lips.
You were one of the first people I ever told the full story to. I buried it deep down, a secret tale of shame with a splash of fiery bravery and divine intervention.
But I no longer felt innocent. I no longer caught sand crabs and painted messages on their shells with nail polish. I didn't imagine I was a mermaid anymore. I stopped believing in buried treasures and hermit crabs that sang and had names like Sebastian. When I came back from Belize and joined the swim team again, I swam to win. I didn't dive down deep and explore the bottom of the pool anymore. I didn't pretend that the stray pennies were silver dollars or that the drain pipes led to secret caverns. I swam in a straight line. I closed my eyes on my flip-turns. I kicked harder. I moved with a sense of purpose instead of a sense of wonder.
It wasn't until I met you that I really began to peel back that guard I'd put up. I let go of stifled fear when I fell in love with you. I found my sense of marvel again. You had a naturalness for being like a kid. I used to watch you sleep and when you would wake up, I'd tell you about how you reminded me of a little boy. You were always searching for wonder. You always wanted to dig deep and climb high. You reminded me what it was like to live in the light. With you, I set the innocent, little girl inside of me free again.
Not many thirty-four year old men have an entire drawer dedicated to stickers. If anyone ever had glitter, your words were, "Yes, please!" You liked to play dress up with neon colors and fuzzy fabrics. You spent over a hundred dollars on fabric and materials to make our Burning Man scooter look like the cartoon character, Tigger. Your penmanship was as perfect as a fifth grader who wanted to ace his handwriting exam. Your favorite shows were animated. You barely flinched when thousands of pieces of 80's themed confetti were thrown all over the floor of our house at my birthday party (I'm looking at you, Larson sisters). You were famous in the jam band scene for secretly tagging friends and strangers with dozens of sparkly smiley face stickers. And just your being in general, you were a kid at heart.
When reality and adulthood loomed, you'd face it. You weren't immature by any means. But, you'd balance being a man with mischief and fun, with a silly pun, a high-five or a somersault, and a broad grin with dancing eyes. You were never going to let go of that wonder. You never did.
I lept into the water with you – eyes wide, heart open. Me, armed with authenticity and big dreams. You, armed with innocence and a Scorpio tattoo. When we fell in love, I believed in fairy tales again. I believed in hidden treasures and I knew for damn sure there was such thing as Prince Charming. I'd kissed some toads and I'd gotten you. My own boy to hold hands with and jump in. You made me want to open my eyes again. You made me feel safe: no burns, no attacks – just wonder.
So now, I will take my all past experiences, including this terrible loss, and I will strap them onto my back. Though the load with bear me down, I will not fall. And if I stumble, I will use my fiery, strong legs to get back up. And when I'm scared and lonely, I will think of our memories and I will smile, though at first it will be fake, maybe someday it will turn honest. I will trust in the signs. I will remember that energy that lifted me up out of that quicksand and helped me escape when I was a child, and I will know that now I have you up there too. In whatever way, I know you will guide me through and you will in some way, some day, show me again what it's like to dive in, wonder, and not think have to worry about the next breath.
At the end of practice, we'd swim our cool-down, maybe 4 or 8 lengths of the pool. That was when I had my favorite moments. You see, when I was a child I used to believe that I had been mermaid once. I had complete faith in life under the sea. The Little Mermaid was my bible. I eventually got teased for it. Anyone who knew me in elementary school will remember taunting me with the nickname 'Mermaid Girl'. But then, I was full of wonder.
During my last few laps of the pool, I would take a deep breath and dive down into the water. I would channel my inner Ariel and dolphin kick my legs as I dove deep. I would open my eyes, letting the chlorine into burn my retinas and gaze at everything there was to see down there at the bottom of the pool. Mind you, there was not much to see: stray hairbands, a swim cap, a lost fin, a dead bug, a hairball, maybe a shiny coin if I was lucky. I would strap on my imagination and pretend I was back in the ocean waters I had explored in Jamaica. I would imagine colorful fish swimming effortlessly in sparkling schools, bright red and blue coral that grew so quickly you could almost watch it rise towards the heavens, large rays that gracefully slid across the ocean floor casting shadows on the sea floor like clouds from the sky. Maybe there would be a treasure chest, spilling over with gold coins and colorful rubies and emeralds. While I was reasonably fast, the pool was far too distracting for me to be taken too seriously as a competitor in a race. Instead, the water was my world, my secret garden of underwater adventure. A blue or red ribbon was just bonus points.
When I was nine, we moved to Belize for a year. Again, the ocean was my oyster! I would play in the water for hours. I'd watch fish soar through underground playgrounds with an easy sense of cooperation. Did you know that an entire school of fish vote on which way they'll go by a simple turn of the head? After 51% of the fish look one way, the whole school switches direction instantaneously and without missing a beat. (Imagine if people were like that... but I digress.) I remember jumping off of a motor boat to go snorkeling. Once submerged, I turned back towards the boat to catch the eye of my mom who was about to jump in. I noticed the shadow of something under the boat. It was a huge nurse shark. But it was a time in my life when I was fearless. Until I wasn't.
Two occurrences on that trip broke me and my innocent, imaginative relationship with water.
We went on a day trip to a tiny island with only three palm trees on it. The adults, armed with mediocre weed and coolers of beer, had a beach party. I decided to catch hermit crabs and organize a race for the party goers. Each person chose a crab. I drew a circle in the sand and put all the crabs in the middle. The first one out of the circle was the winner. I was the maestro supreme! Later that day, we went for a snorkel. As we swam along the reef, I remember watching a barracuda and a huge mantra ray swim by. I was still fearless. I understood that I was a part of the whole ecosystem. We are not a drop of the ocean, we are the entire ocean in a drop.
We began to swim over a huge bed of coral. The guide, whose English was not great, instructed me NOT to touch the coral. "Fire coral!" he yelled. He pointed at the coral all around me. It appeared to be centimeters from my skin. The objects in water are closer than they appear, but I did not know that at the time. He continued to yell at me, "Fire coral! Fire coral! Do not touch. Will burn!" He pointed to a nasty scar engulfing his leg. It looked like a parasite joined up with a shark bite and then the infection festered on his calf. In my mind now, I know there is no way he got that injury from fire coral. But in my nine-year-old brain, I was screwed. I hovered over the water, regressing from freestyle to a doggy paddle immediately. I was paralyzed by fear mid-snorkle. My parents had to lure me out of the water. I have been frightened of coral ever since. I can hardly swim in the ocean without fear of the coral grabbing me in it's rocky mitts and burning my body while it pulls me down and drowns me.
Later that year the other event happened that scarred me and destroyed my blooming career as a mermaid. Again, I was on the beach catching crabs. Let's face it, I liked to catch crabs as a little girl. All jokes aside, they were sand crabs. (Let it be known that I have never actually had crabs.) I had made friends with an older boy, Mario, on the beach. In Belize, many of the young girls were encouraged to help their mothers in the home, so much of my outdoor roaming time was either alone or with boys.
Mario convinced me that there would be more crabs in the brackish water of the mangrove swamp down the beach. It was further than I was aloud to go and my parents weren't around to ask, so I was wary. He convinced me it would be quick and bountiful. I was a bit of a rebel, so I went along with it.
Inside the mangrove forest, the floor of the ocean was almost like quicksand. My little legs were getting stuck in the sticky, muddy earth. I was distracted from the hunt as I tried to un-stick myself from the ground. I thought Mario was setting a trap from a crab, but apparently, he had a different intention. When I looked up from my battle with the sediment, moments later – he had exposed himself to me. A small, brown, uncircumcised, erect, teenage penis pointed at me. Pants down, he started towards me. All in one swift inhale, I felt confusion, surprise, curiosity, guilt, excitement, anger, and fear.
As Mario sludged his way through the mud to me, I felt the mud floor free my ankles. It was as though the earth had taken my side in the battle. I braced myself by grabbing onto the distended roots of the mangrove trees that surrounded me and lifted my body up out of the water. Without much forethought, I used one of my free legs to swiftly kick Mario square in the junk, hard. As he cowered in pain, I took off running. Suddenly, the floor of that swamp was as solid and buoyant as the turf on a track. I had the distinct feeling that something greater was helping me fight back and run away. When I escaped from the mangrove swamp, there was a golf cart driving by with a small search party on it. They had been looking for me. I hopped aboard and zipped my lips.
You were one of the first people I ever told the full story to. I buried it deep down, a secret tale of shame with a splash of fiery bravery and divine intervention.
But I no longer felt innocent. I no longer caught sand crabs and painted messages on their shells with nail polish. I didn't imagine I was a mermaid anymore. I stopped believing in buried treasures and hermit crabs that sang and had names like Sebastian. When I came back from Belize and joined the swim team again, I swam to win. I didn't dive down deep and explore the bottom of the pool anymore. I didn't pretend that the stray pennies were silver dollars or that the drain pipes led to secret caverns. I swam in a straight line. I closed my eyes on my flip-turns. I kicked harder. I moved with a sense of purpose instead of a sense of wonder.
It wasn't until I met you that I really began to peel back that guard I'd put up. I let go of stifled fear when I fell in love with you. I found my sense of marvel again. You had a naturalness for being like a kid. I used to watch you sleep and when you would wake up, I'd tell you about how you reminded me of a little boy. You were always searching for wonder. You always wanted to dig deep and climb high. You reminded me what it was like to live in the light. With you, I set the innocent, little girl inside of me free again.
Not many thirty-four year old men have an entire drawer dedicated to stickers. If anyone ever had glitter, your words were, "Yes, please!" You liked to play dress up with neon colors and fuzzy fabrics. You spent over a hundred dollars on fabric and materials to make our Burning Man scooter look like the cartoon character, Tigger. Your penmanship was as perfect as a fifth grader who wanted to ace his handwriting exam. Your favorite shows were animated. You barely flinched when thousands of pieces of 80's themed confetti were thrown all over the floor of our house at my birthday party (I'm looking at you, Larson sisters). You were famous in the jam band scene for secretly tagging friends and strangers with dozens of sparkly smiley face stickers. And just your being in general, you were a kid at heart.
When reality and adulthood loomed, you'd face it. You weren't immature by any means. But, you'd balance being a man with mischief and fun, with a silly pun, a high-five or a somersault, and a broad grin with dancing eyes. You were never going to let go of that wonder. You never did.
I lept into the water with you – eyes wide, heart open. Me, armed with authenticity and big dreams. You, armed with innocence and a Scorpio tattoo. When we fell in love, I believed in fairy tales again. I believed in hidden treasures and I knew for damn sure there was such thing as Prince Charming. I'd kissed some toads and I'd gotten you. My own boy to hold hands with and jump in. You made me want to open my eyes again. You made me feel safe: no burns, no attacks – just wonder.
So now, I will take my all past experiences, including this terrible loss, and I will strap them onto my back. Though the load with bear me down, I will not fall. And if I stumble, I will use my fiery, strong legs to get back up. And when I'm scared and lonely, I will think of our memories and I will smile, though at first it will be fake, maybe someday it will turn honest. I will trust in the signs. I will remember that energy that lifted me up out of that quicksand and helped me escape when I was a child, and I will know that now I have you up there too. In whatever way, I know you will guide me through and you will in some way, some day, show me again what it's like to dive in, wonder, and not think have to worry about the next breath.
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