Romeo, Save Me, They're Trying to Tell Me How to Feel

I am trying really hard to make sense of the space I am in right now. In some ways I feel as though I am exactly where I am meant to be and was destined to be and, really, in the only place I could ever have hoped to be in this exact moment; in others, I feel absolutely lost in a maze of what-ifs.

'What' and 'if.' Two words as non-threatening

as words come. But put them together

side-by-side and they have the

power to haunt you for the

rest of your life:

'What if?'

And then I find myself telling myself to shut the frick up already and take life how it has played out. It's beautiful; I don't know if I could have picked a better place to be in, minus the dirt and rot of the last year and a lot. But when I stop looking back and look at now, it's beautiful. It's brilliant. I wouldn't have it any other way.

That is how I need to choose to see it. If I don't, I will be swallowed up and find myself ending in a tragic 3inchesofwater drowning accident.

Drowning in a Venti White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino Double Blended Hold the Whip Please

Oh Starbucks and your wily ways. Half-price frappuccinos for ten days during "happy hour." This is my third day...even ventis are less than $3 and I just can't help myself!

Coffee, chocolate, cold. Best ever.

Drowning in my Own Expectations (Re: You're Making Me Angry)

I usually consider posting more than one blog a day to be...how do you say?...Ridiculous.

I cannot, however, be expected to be held to the same standards of unridiculousness at 2:24 A.M. while I am reading old blogs to pass the time until I finally fall asleep.

In October I posted a blog detailing how I must never ever under any circumstances cross my heart and hope to die do whatever it takes to stop it NEVER let myself be able to say it's been a year.

It's been a year.

As of five days ago, it has been a year. That hurts to say. Not a sharp pain; an uncomfortable, dull ache fills my stomach and drags me deeper within myself.

One year and six days ago, I think I was pretty much okay. One year and five days ago, I was not. And it continued. And it built. And so much happened that eventually I was overwhelmed. And here I am, no better off than I was over a year ago. I don't want three years of dry season! Gosh darnit, I didn't even want one!

Maybe I just expected too much from myself. I do that...a lot. It only serves to hurt me time and time again, but I can't help expecting too much all over again when a new situation presents itself.

I wanted to be better. I wanted to be well. I wanted to be out of this desert and at least on my way to the promised land. But what defines a promise anyway? Do I really have one at all? Or is another mirage catching me off guard? I am hopelessly lost, wandering in a sea of sand with nothing to block the horizon except my own hand in front of my face. There is no waterfall. There is no fresh summer grass. There is no milk and honey or happiness that doesn't last less than five seconds a pop or marriage to one's true love or beauty or the children I so desperately long for.

I am not getting better. This is not recovery. This is slowly wasting away.

Drowning by Choice

Picture this, if you will.

I'm on a boat.

A big one with lots of cool stuff.

Suddenly!

*gasp*

A storm!

The brilliant blue sky is darkened in minutes.

The waves, in turn, appear sinister.

The crew is scrambling.

I stand in the middle, obviously in the way.

Then.

Out of nowhere comes the hugest wave any of us has ever seen

(think 'Perfect Storm' huge).

It rises.

Rises.

RISES out of the rest of the sea.

We travel swiftly into the valley that the monstrous wave has drained.

Higher.

Higher!

HIGHER it rises until we can't remember a time before the wave.

Slow motion.

I t b e g i n s t o d e s c e n d . . .

Panic!

No time.

I am washed out to sea.

As suddenly as it comes, the storm passes as if it never occurred.

My overboard body is the only consequence left in its wake.

The sides are high.

There is no ladder.

Panic.

I cannot get back to where I was before.

I tread water.

First with only my feet, then with only my hands.

Trying to conserve energy.

Lasting only seconds.

Failing miserably.

A streak of colour!

A plop into the ocean beside my head.

A life preserver.

Or so it tells me.

I stare at it, conversing with myself about the pros and cons of grabbing the red and white tube.

I want to trust it.

I want to believe it won't leave me stranded, worse off than before.

But what if it's lying?

What if the moment I grab on and stop swimming, it drops me like a rock?

Paranoid.

Or possibly just safe.

The water is freezing my fingers.

My toes are numb.

My mind is not what it should be.

A moment of clarity!

(I hope).

I tell it to go back.

I beg it to leave me alone.

I remain treading water, losing strength and energy by the second.

But I need it to prove it is telling the truth.

I may drown in the waiting.

Drowning in My Own Reflection

Today I got front row tickets to someone else's heart-wrenching pain. She took me through hours of monologue; memories of the last month that she can't shake were suddenly more important than anything else. She is 17 and has just learned that guys will lie about love to get what they want.

She lasted longer than I did. I got my first boyfriend at 15 and, four days into our "relationship," he professed his love to me at the public swimming pool. Despite my incredulous laughter, he said that with love in mind we should have sex. Then I really laughed. We broke up later that day. Shocker. The lesson I learned that I'd always figured but never had solid proof of: men lie about love.

This happens for one of two reasons:

1. They're lying to themselves, deranged enough to think they love me despite not knowing all my pleasant niceties or pitiful faults, which are both essential before such a declaration. You either love all of me or none of me at all; therefore, if you do not know all of me, you cannot love me.
2. They're lying to me and they know it because they think it will get them what they want. Ugh.

She's 17 and hurting because she thinks she broke this guy's heart. A week later he already had a different girlfriend. And she's broken and I understand and there's nothing I can do to help, despite my huge amount of experience. It makes all my heartache feel useless.

She is a slightly more sane, less messy reflection of me. I wish I had something better to say. I wish I could help her before she turns into me.

Drowning in the Ocean...A Big, Wide, Empty Ocean

When I'm walking and waiting and eating and engaging and conversing and crying and interacting and imagining and creating and cooking and laughing and lounging and showering and shopping and deciding and dreaming and fighting and flattering and sleeping and shivering and lying and living...I think I'm doing those things. I think I'm doing them convincingly well. I tell myself that this is just the way life is.

And then.

You walk into the room. Or call. Or just make eye contact. And all of a sudden, it's like I'm coming up for air. I realize that all this time that I thought I've been living like a normal person, in reality I have been holding my breath, drowning in a sea of withoutness.

I don't know how to live without you. I thought I did. I thought I could do life and be okay. But I'm not. And you might never know now.

Drowning in Mascara and Lip Gloss

I think there is something critical missing from my make-up.

Bronzer, duh. Have you seen my complexion?

Jokes.

I think there is something critical missing from my chemical make-up.

Most people, from what I've heard, are born with this natural sense of self-preservation. The fight or flight option only exists to help us survive. We are trained to respond to the needs of our bodies as they come: hunger, thirst, low or high temperature, bathroom breaks in the middle of something really important. We are hard-wired to protect our lives at all costs, except in some very special cases.

I do not have this survival instinct.

My Body: "I'm tired."

Leanne: "Yo Body, let's stay up as long as we can tonight!"

My Stomach: "I'm hungry."

Leanne: "I'm not very hungry."

My Stomach: "I'm really getting hungry."

Leanne: "I've only had a croissant and a cup of coffee all day!"

My Stomach: "FEED ME!"

Leanne: "Weird, I wonder why I don't feel good."

My Adrenaline: "That man looks sketchy."

Leanne: "Hey! Let's go ask that man for directions!"

My Adrenaline: "Jumping off this is probably a bad idea..."

Leanne: "Hey, I've got an idea! Let's jump off this sixty foot cliff!"

It's almost like I have some kind of aversion to doing the simple stuff. Or the sane stuff. Or just stuff at all.

Tomorrow I promise to do better. And wear make-up.

Disclaimer: No hyperbolizing was used in the writing of this blog. And no animals were harmed either, except possibly Scooter because I don't think Melissa feeds him and I can't remind her when I barely remind myself.