I don’t tell you as much anymore, but I’m still rocking.
I don’t cry every day, but I’m still kind of sad.
I’ve stopped talking about it mostly, but it’s still there. The rocking you usually don’t see (but I always feel).
It’s still with me. All day. Every day. The internal swing set is still going. Back and forth, up and down. Always moving. Never still.
My life is still being lived on a boat, and it can feel different from day to day, or even hour to hour. Sometimes there are light waves that I can mostly tune out, and sometimes there are stormy seas that can knock me off my feet.
Eventually I got tired of being “that” person. The one who complained all the time. The one who didn’t seem happy. The person who didn’t seem to be engaged or interested.
So as time went on, I got a little quieter.
My silence doesn’t mean it’s gone. It just means I’m coping and trying to live my life. But it can be really hard sometimes. There are moments of complete despair and frustration. Times when I struggle to prepare a meal, sit at a table, follow the story you’re telling me, or write a sentence that makes sense.
You may wonder why I’m walking slower, and maybe you even ask me. “Just tired,” I might say. I’ve stopped trying to explain how I’m walking on a trampoline. I know it doesn’t make sense and sounds bizarre. So instead, I’m “just tired,” and usually that’s true as well.
There are things you may not always notice, but have become part of my routine. How I request a booth at a restaurant and select places with dim lighting. How I reach for the handrails everywhere I go. How I avoid certain stores and places. How I struggle to clean, cook, run errands and exercise. And how I pass on some outings and activities I would have done before.
When the rocking gets to be too much, sometimes I need to cry. Please don’t tell me I shouldn’t. Let me cry. Let me rant. Let me have a short pity party. Crying helps me cope. It doesn’t mean I can’t deal with it – it just sometimes helps me deal with it.
When you see me holding my head, clutching the table, leaning against a wall, gazing off into the distance, or just being a little quieter, it means I’m struggling. Lend me your arm. Give me a hug. Help me if I ask. Or give me some time to myself.
So no, it hasn’t gone away. I just don’t talk about it as much anymore. There’s nothing new to say about it really.
I try to focus more on other things now, and that’s how it should be. There’s so much I love about my life and this isn’t going to stop me from living it. I’m coping, I’m accepting, and I’m moving forward. I just wanted to let you know that it’s still there.
I’m still on a boat adrift at sea, searching for a shoreline that hasn’t appeared. I’m still on a boat that’s never still.