The Deep End

Window Gazers

There are moments when I wonder what exactly this is doing to me – to my family – this writing, this memoir I’ve been working on for almost two months now.  Memories are being unearthed, emotions felt more concentrated than ever – once a river that flowed freely in and out, is now something more of a small pool that I find myself standing in.

I cannot just wait for the water to rush by me – I need to find ways to climb out of it.

Some days are easier than others – I’ve only dipped my toes in, or I’m ankle-deep.

On other days, I’m up to my neck in it – teeth-chattering and fingertips shriveled to raisins after being immersed in those waters, after typing for hours.

On those days, I feel a deep fear followed by a sense of freedom.  Like a bad dream I am letting go of by writing it down, by telling someone – even if it’s just the blinking cursor on my screen that is my trusted confidante for now.

But much like a bad dream, I cannot always just shake it off, I am haunted by these memories, these feelings I have finally allowed to bubble to the surface.

And there is a darkness in the hearts of people who are haunted.

There is a light that has dimmed behind their eyes.

I am not writing these words in a cave, or on a remote island somewhere – I’m not even writing them in an office or a room of my own.  I am writing them at the desk that stands in my bedroom, with my husband sleeping in our bed – his loud breathing reminding me that there are still people here that need me, that expect me to be present.

I cannot afford to go off the map.

This world that I am looking back on is also one that I am still very much immersed in.

Everything that I write about – the struggles, the triumphs – they are still ongoing.  They need to be witnessed – to be really, truly seen, and eyes that have had their light dimmed cannot see what is in front of them very clearly.  A mind that is lost in things that occurred three years ago – or 23 years ago – cannot fully absorb what is happening in this moment.

And I am wanted in this moment.

I am needed in this moment.

Because one day this moment will have happened three – or 23 – years ago, and the regret I will feel about missing it will likely threaten to drown me in sorrow, in sadness that is so much deeper than any I might be feeling now.  There is no second chance for missed opportunities to watch your children growing up. To hold hands, and break up brother/sister fights. To listen to silly made-up songs and know the difference between a fall that truly hurts, or when it is their pride that has been bruised – when they need an ice pack or when a hug is the best salve.  To glow with pride at accomplishments both big and small and to hold on tight after setbacks.

There is no “next time” when your five year-old daughter has a huge accident in her carpeted bedroom and you need to choose whether or not to shower her with compassion or anger.  I had the energy for empathy this time, but there are plenty of moments that I feel shame at the lack of sensitivity I exhibit towards them – I worry that I am too quick to show the frustration I am feeling.

I am ashamed that I am writing about my experience as child, my experience as a parent – and that there are moments when that choice makes it difficult to be a parent, and to see my children.

But I am learning.

I am determined to do better, to be better.

To chase this dream of mine, while successfully nurturing my marriage and raising my children to believe that their dreams are achievable as well.

***At this moment, I just realized the incredible irony within the water metaphor…***

I am a horrible and weak swimmer.  I am uncomfortable in the water – always have been.

As a result, I insisted that both Parker and Owen take lessons from a young age.

They love it.

They are naturals in the water.

What seems like an intimidating ocean to me, presents as a welcoming pond to them. They frolic in the exact place I fear.

I have given them the tools to do what I never could – at least in this one respect.

And day after day, they keep me afloat – they keep my head above water – despite all that has threatened to pull me under.

At the very least, I owe it to them to bear witness as their strokes grow stronger, as they fearlessly jump in where I would have sat tentatively on the side with only my legs dangling in.

Ankle-deep or fully-immersed, I need to make sure that I can pull myself out of that water each day.

If only so I can watch them dive in.

Comments

  1. says

    This is so, so beautiful. I think we all struggle with the balance between our tangible world and our world that we are creating with words. With giving our full attention to one at a time, without allowing the other to suffer. It’s hard sometimes, especially when both pull at us equally, but I also think that it can be a privilege to ask these questions and to work to reconcile both of these pieces of ourselves.

  2. says

    This: “I am ashamed that I am writing about my experience as child, my experience as a parent – and that there are moments when that choice makes it difficult to be a parent, and to see my children.” Yes. I have felt this too. Your writing is beautiful and honest. Love reading your posts!

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