Underwater

It’s an intangible pressure that nobody else could see, but I could feel it. It’s unrelenting and unforgiving, and it’s simultaneously loud, yet uncomfortably muted. 

It reminds me of when I’m sick but I still go to work. I took DayQuil and tried to tough it out. And I did. I got through the day, but I felt like I was struggling to breathe. Like I was trying to stay afloat.

Like I was underwater. 

Getting through grief is like being underwater. I  can kind of see what’s happening around me if I concentrate, but concentrating drains me of all my energy, so I just, don’t. I waded through each day as one blurs into the next. I learned to give pre-drafted responses to how I’m feeling, and what I’ve been up to. 

The reality is, I didn’t care. I didn’t care what was happening around me, because there’s nothing more after the worst. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore. It doesn’t mean I hated everyone around me. It just meant I couldn’t connect. I couldn’t see past my own pain. I wasn’t even sure if I could call it pain anymore because it was just a feeling I’d grown accustomed to. It was exhausting and I was tempted to just give in and let the water take me.

I spent the better part of the last two years feeling like I was treading water, and I was tired. I was done. I was ready. But then, I realized, I wanted to breathe.

I wanted to push through. I wanted a new normal. 

So I learned to swim. 

I was fortunate enough to have the support of my friends and family, but the biggest thing I learned throughout this process was that the bulk of the work was mine to do. 

It was a journey I had to take alone, and I did. 

I’m not underwater anymore. 

I can breathe again, and soon enough, you will too.