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.