Everything will be okay

Today is hard. For all the reasons –even the people I love and things I love to do –all of it just feels hard. Like I’m trying to pull open a door that says ‘push.’ Like the answer to my question is right in front of me, but my attention only lasts long enough not to walk into something –like a closed door. I imagine a little me in a crowd, lost, catching a glimpse of what my mom was wearing and following only to very quickly realize it’s not my mom. A little girl lost and looking as if she’s being pushed and pulled every direction, but no one is touching her or even coming very close – just moving quickly around her as she seems to be acting out an interpretive dance. A blow to the stomach that pushes her, folded, back two steps, an urgent look and a sprint forward, a jab in the side, arms up, one leg up, suspended and teetering to one side then the other, forward, and she falls back on her butt. The crowd continues to walk quickly past all around her, but she’s not in the way, she’s not inconvenienced even one of the passersby. She slams her hands to the ground, knees bent to her chest, feet flat, look angry and kicks back pushing her butt and body sliding backward into the crowd, but the ground disappears beneath her and she tumbles backward into a pool. The quiet is nice and the water feels cool against her hot, angry face. She feels peaceful, silly even, for being angry. She realizes the backward tumble into this pool being unknown and all caused her to get some of the water up her nose and she’s struggling to continue holding her breath. Her outfit, not being suited for a pool, pulls her as she kicks to the sun’s glimmer on top of the water. She reaches air and the side of the pool and is coughing out the water that had breached her nose during the tumble. She coughs out so much water it reaches the crowd of quick passersby. Most avoid the watery trail until one man in a suit with the most expensive looking shoes steps in it and without a hitch, reaches down with a lunch napkin that was holding his last bite, now being chewed, and wipes the water away, smirks, and says ‘it’s just water.’ I, the little girl, holding on to the edge of the pool, start to cry. Not a big-feelings-little-girl cry, but a one-tissue quiet cry. A cry of an adult not wanting to disturb the quickly passing crowd or pool-goers who are in the proper pool attire because they planned on going. A cry held back to much it hurts. The sun seems to quickly disappear behind clouds and the splashes heard behind me slow, then disappear as well. It’s raining now and no one comes to help me out of the pool. I hear the whistle of a lifeguard blow, but not the words accompanying it. I pull myself out of the pool, slowly because of the weight of my clothes, and lay back on the pools edge, feet dangling in the water and resting on the first step of the ladder. I guess it could be considered the last step to those getting out of the pool. The top step to be sure there’s no confusion. I lay there in the rain, my back warm from the sun-heated pools edge, and my body and face warm at first, then quickly chilled to the bone. I can feel the irritation from my wet clothes on every inch of my body. I start to open my eyes, not really wanting to, but knowing I need to leave and I gotta start by opening my eyes. When I open my eyes it’s as if I’ve been controlling the weather all along. The rain stops, the sun parts the clouds, one drop hits my cheek, and when I reach up to touch it or wipe it away – I'm not sure which, at the moment I close my eyes again – the exact same moment – I feel the embrace of someone paired with the biggest, fluffiest, nicest smelling, fresh-out-of-the-dryer towel. I melt into it and start to cry again. I cry and cry and cry and my cries turn into sniffles, then to snores. When I wake up I’m still outside from what I can tell, still near water, and still wrapped tightly and comfortably in a towel. I can feel the sun warm on my cheek when I lift the towel from where it had been placed to protect from the sun, and when I wriggle out of the towel I’m in a swimsuit. Mid-90s printed one-piece, hair french braided grazing my shoulders, feet bare and I see who I think is my mom sitting on the sand in front of where I was sleeping watching the water and waves crash just barely reaching the very tips of her toes and receding back into the ocean pulling the shells I can now see she’s been placing one by one for each wave to take back with it. I tap her shoulder lightly and she turns to look at me, already smiling –I can tell by the way her cheeks, jaw, and ears move. And with the same deep brown eyes as mine, same mouth and cheeks, she softens her wide smile, takes my hands, really looks at me like she sees me, and says “everything will be okay.” When she finishes her words, I realize she’s not my mom. She’s me. I close my eyes once more to the warmth of those words, to the feeling of being truly seen and my heart feels calm. I wake up on the bed on top of the covers wrapped in a towel, still warm from the dryer, a throw blanket covering my feet, and he asks ‘is everything okay?’ I reply ‘it will be.’ What an imagination, right?! This isn’t even a dream I’ve had – at least that I can remember. Moral of the story I guess is I have to be there for my inner child. Only I can do that for myself.  

I recorded myself reading this entry in six parts on Instagram and you can listen to it here: Everything will be okay | Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6