Just Above

I have been feeling myself sinking lately.  I feel as if my body is doing the impossible and shrinking into this tiny, invisible breath.  One small gust of wind and I will be swept away and broken down into more microscopic particles that the naked eye cannot recognize.

But somehow in this ocean, this enormous, bottomless blue pit of depression, I am keeping my head just above it.  I am kicking my feet and rowing my arms as fast and hard as I can.  I am proud of that.  I am proud that in the midst of emotional destruction, in the midst of this black hole that is swallowing me, I am still here.  I am still forcing myself to wake up each morning, and I am still breathing.

My senses are in an overdose state from continuous Coldplay, Hozier and City and Colour.  I dance in my kitchen, my long, curly, unkempt hair exploding around me.  This is my natural state, the place where I am most comfortable.  Music pounding against my ear drums as an army would pound against a stone wall in an attempt to forge through and conquer.  I am still kicking, swimming, staying just above.

The monotony of my world, the never ending, robotic torture of being responsible is what I have grown to love.  My heart is deep and full of this passion that has become motherhood, but the passion of that which was a writer has been dwindling on a thin strand, ready to snap at any moment.  I count the seconds before I have lost all of me, becoming unrecognizable.

I grasp tightly to my old self, begging whatever God is there to stop stripping me of what I know, what I am good at, what I am proud of.  Just as I feel the dream slipping through my fingertips, I find some sort of strength and grip even tighter.  They are mine again, these words pouring from my fingers onto the keys of this computer.  I can breathe again.  I see me, and I am proud of where I am.  I am proud to be a writer.  I am proud of keeping my head just above.  I am proud of the monotony.