Man Overboard

The sails are all collapsing down as I'm sailing till dawn. And by the time the rescue comes, my body may be gone. Swept away by the ebb of the shore. How can I not lose my head or heart? He's been gone for so long. I keep telling myself he is almost home. But I have been repeating those words to myself for the past two years. And every time he is home, he has to leave again. I wonder if the military is aware of the effects that long term assignments have on the spouses. They are aware, but perhaps not receptive, not responsive.

Why does the epiphany, the paradigm shift, the cathartic breakthrough, the spiritual awakening, all come after the damage has reached the furthest peak and deepest pit? Perhaps, it is because our pride keeps us from calling out for help until we feel ourselves sinking under the murky, storm lashed, angry waters. We sink below and see the eyes of predators, glowing, reflecting against the dimming light we hold within. They wait beneath the surface. Stalking, prowling. We feel the cold slither of the shark fins whipping at our toes, our fingers. Rows of teeth painted with old blood. They're waiting for us to get lost in the darkness of the deep.  We swallow ocean in our attempt to finally call for help, and alas, taste the bitterness of what we have been wading in for so very long. The sea I've been sailing on, the sea that initially looked harmless and easy to overcome, even with myself as captain of my boat, now reveals it's overwhelming powers. The ocean's swarthy, wet hands, which easily encompass the mass of the moon, enter my throat, choking me inwardly. The beauty of the water has faked sustenance, but, now I know, is full of salt. The cold is, simultaneously, gripping and anesthetic. "Go ahead and fall asleep. Go ahead and let go," it whispers to me as it injects liquid lies; they flow through the veins quicker that way, infiltrating the chambers of the heart. The waves lash about violently and become like millstones attached to my extremities. I am man overboard. I knew my sails were failing and I sat at the edge until my boat tipped. I look ahead and I see the dawn approaching, I see a pin pink line of horizon at the nearing shore, but I am in the storm. I sat in the calm eye of apathy and now am caught in the chaotic wrath of impending aftermath. Who is stronger than this yoke, this sea? Who fills the holes that mar my boat and mends the tears that rip my sails? Who redirects the wind and warms the sharp breath of the night? To the sea, I am merely a speck; plankton prey; a descending specimen; a faint echo; a plummeting star who purposelessly shed its light in an unpopulated area of the sky; a raindrop tossed and dried up on the shore; a broken grain of sand. Who would notice or care if the crevice of a rock was instantaneously filled with dirt and shut up forever? To the sea, I am below the acknowledgment of nothingness. 

And to me, my name is "Who?" I am listless, I am restless, I am breathless, I am faceless, I am weary, I am waning, I am waiting, I am wondering, I am concerned, I am cornered, I am careened, I am capricious, I am apathy, I am anger, I am acclimating, I am ambivalent, I am in need. Am I what the sea says I am?

Out from the thundering clouds, I hear a voice, like many waters, say, "There is another 'Who'".

"I don't understand," I say.

"Who looks at you and sees the presence of a soul. Who responds to this faint, transient echo as an incessant crying out. Who sees you dive off your own boat and still finds you worth the effort to comb out the sea until you are found. Who climbs down from his lofty place in the heavens and walks along streets paved with mire to find you where you are. Who is stronger than the yoke of this sea. Who fills the holes of your boat and mends your ripped sails. Who redirects the wind and warms the night. Who hears you in your distress. Who will save you," the voice responds.

"I know a man who walks on water and calms the seas..Who is he? Is he Who?" I ask.

"I Am."

But I have been pushing away the two persons who mean the most to me. Who, together, make up the equation of love in my heart. I have been so mad, so full of apathy that I have turned my heart and back on both. Like a rip tide toward the inlet, I have pushed against myself and withdrawn inwardly and away. That has only caused my distress to catch fever. Is this how the end of deployment is for everyone? I know there are the stages of deployment, so you'd think the predictability or inevitability of concluding struggle would prepare you or ease the impact. For me, it has not. Seems the struggle is more spiritual than emotional. My guard has been let down. I have been barraged and attacked relentlessly. And the only two, the only ONE who could save me from that, I have shrugged off. Conversation ceased. Love suspended like tears midfall. Man overboard.

When Apathy Rears Its Head

There comes a moment, much like the moment right before you blackout. That moment of fading, of white washed peripherals caving in. A moment when every microscopic speck of matter swells to an overwhelming degree and swallows you whole. It is the moment where you lose yourself. Where incessant selflessness begets a selfish wave of withdrawal. The moment when you stop fighting the rip current and just let it lash you where it will. It is the moment which follows the sudden realization of how long you have been angry or sad or abused. Because it has been so long. Apathy is rain, pouring down from dark clouds and sweeping through the gutters of the heart, collecting complicated emotions and their origins and making them seamless and powerless. Apathy is running away. Apathy is giving up and giving in. Apathy is closing your eyes on an open highway. It is depersonalization. Apathy is a sea siren, luring you in with its mesmerizing song before it pulls you under. Apathy is rushing water. It is standing beneath the descending currents of a waterfall. Filled with the sound of calm. White noise. No thoughts or past permitted to penetrate this thick veil of tranquility. Apathy is music. Submerging yourself in the sound of thoughts depressed, suppressed, regressed, regrets, remorse, released, refreshed...reset. The deepest pain and the greatest joy settled within the same lifeboat, the same single, lingering note. Like East and West intertwining fingers. Romanticizing the saddest experiences and most tragic flaws, making them alluring like fire on the horizon. But untouchable, like the face of the sun on the sea. Failure becomes fluidity, whisked away on a wet, slithering wave. Apathy is wet paint running down the pale flesh of a canvas. Art not ruined, just changing. A metamorphosis. Even the dullest pain scintillates with the shimmer of silver lining off looming clouds. Apathy is the snap after overuse. The crumble after misuse. Apathy excuses you from explaining or understanding or waiting or wanting. It just leaves you numb. Apathy captivates anger. And then releases it at an indefinite time. Apathy is the calm before a storm. The emerald overcast before a tornado. Apathy is the introverted. Apathy is the pushover. Apathy is the demoralized victim. Apathy is the invisible. Apathy is the mask. Apathy is inevitable.

Apathy feels like a refuge, but be forewarned. It makes everything numb. It turns out every light. It blocks every exit. It snuffs out the conscience. It is the ebb and flow of the mind. It barters temporary calm for stolen identity. As pretentious admiration mimics the feel of true love, apathy mimics resolve. Apathy is merely suppression. It is an extension of time. Because everything has consequence and everything must be addressed. Every pain must be felt before it can exit the body. Drop the stones you grip in your hand because apathy will bury you beneath a landslide of guilt before you can even put a chip in the face of the porcelain self you once idealized. Apathy is ambiguous and esoteric blog posts which lack the energy to be composed of anything coherent. Apathy is a cold, hard shell of a woman, unmoved and undefeated. But I don't believe for a second that there isn't a scared little girl trembling inside.