Baptism and Last Rites performed within the same hour of my first
breath. From the moment the cold sterile air pinked my skin, I have
struggled. I fought and survived. Later when hangers and leashes
and brass buckles provided discipline, I fought and I survived. Later
when bedrooms were dark and secrets were born, I fought and I survived.
Even later, when vows were made and the view was pleasant, I fought. I
struggled the demons that threatened my children. I struggled to keep the
circus smile, to maintain the friable façade of average family.
Then it was shattered.
And I broke.
Now I struggle and I am alone. Now I struggle and
nowhere is a warm touch that reminds me of what it is like to feel
hopeful. Now I pass through the days like July’s humidity, slow,
heavy. And there are moments, moments as the hours surround me that I
wish I could stop. I wish I could stop being. I wish my fight would
end and the last whisper of breath would brush my lips. Then I could
stop.
And then, then I would read and write and dream and love.
And then, then I would deify the sun, the moon, the echo of
silence. I would laugh. I would smile. I would live.
But, the next breath always follows and I continue to fight
and survive. I always do. Just give me the strength for one more
day. How long until I am begging for one more hour, one more minute, one
more breath? How long until I no longer have the strength to beg?
I have lost control and my life continues without me.
My children, my health, my job, my finances, my mind, my soul, my spirit, all
spinning, what will prevent me from being sucked into the vortex of my personal
cyclone?
