The Tide is High

I know I am a leaky vessel, but do I need to be reminded of it every day?

This morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled Metal Mulisha t-shirt, the hands of sleep still covering my eyes. The floor is cold and my feet are bare. My arms hang loosely at my sides, not yet ready to function and as I make my way to the bathroom, I hit my funnybone on the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I curse and rub my elbow furiously and I know what kind of day today will be.

Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. A sore elbow.

And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. They pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.

Few know that I'm thirty and am still scared of rapists. When I get home late at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.

Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am completely exposed.

Then I toss and turn and wonder ... how can this ship ever sail with so many holes in it?