I’ve always wondered if you could die from drowning when there’s no water.
The first time I swam in the ocean was when I was four. I sat with my legs crossed at the tide line, letting the water lap around the bottom of my swimsuit. When I pulled my hand out of the water, I watched it drip off, like salty magnets, to the damp sand below. There were so many sounds that they seemed to combine and become one great symphony. The seagulls shriek turned into violins, and the lap of the water became the drums. It seemed as if everyone else was enjoying the music, but to me, it just sounded like fretful birds and brackish water. The easiest way to describe my pain is like the tide, in and out, in and out. Even if you try to swim back in, your efforts end in you being dragged back out again. You just have to wait for the tide to reach the shore. I count the seconds in my head. Ten seconds and I can see again, the deep splotches dancing in front of my eyes. Thirty seconds and I can breathe again, my lungs are screaming, fighting for oxygen. Finally, the pain starts to pull back, like the water finally reaching the shore, but now I am searing. The water drowning me is now gone, but maybe it wasn't there in the first place.
I’ve always wondered if my life is truly mine.
I feel like a puppet on a string, but at some point, the puppeteer gave up and let the strings drop. I had to learn how to move without them and make sure no one noticed the way my shoulders sagged and my legs laid limp. But I’ve learned. Whenever I walk into a room, I press my lips together to make a pleasant shape, one completely unassuming. I walk with my back straight, but not too straight, like I’m casual and completely unaware of what every single person in the room might be thinking of me. I keep my eyes from becoming focused on one thing because then everyone else will focus on that too. And I smile. A smile that makes others smile too. No one would even begin to think that when I get home, that smile fades into the thoughts that keep me up all night. They engulf my brain like a thick fog, one not even intense winds can dissipate. And those thoughts are nothing to smile about.
I’ve always wondered if love at first sight is real.
Heartbreak has taught me that death was possible without dying. I guess I knew it wouldn’t work, but people I told me that I looked too deep into people, but that’s because I knew that there was always more than meets the eye. I’ll never forget the freckles on their skin, like constellations. I’ll never forget the way they tapped their finger against their temple to ease their nerves, or how they would wrinkle their nose when they were focusing. I don’t believe love is a scary thing, but it scared me. Because it could break me and it did. It tore me apart, limb from limb, and shattered me like a fragile piece of china. But the worst part, the worst part is I let them. A person is not a drug, or a hurricane, or a bright light, they are a person. And they could break your heart without even meaning to.
I’ve always wondered what it feels like to be happy.
To be so stupidly gleeful you can't help but smile. And not a smile which just pulls your lips apart, but one that makes them smooth and taut, and your teeth shine. It’s easy for me to tell if someone is truly smiling by how bright their eyes are. My eyes looked like they are screaming for help. I was taught from a child to be strong, self-sufficient, to hold my head high in every situation, with a smile that demonstrated a determination to achieve anything. I also learned early on to cry behind closed doors, with the lights off, or the shower running steamy hot and piercing. To shiver in pain silently, to stay composed until I was alone with my thoughts. Maybe that way it wouldn't be real.
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