flood warnings

The sound of dripping woke me up at 2:30 in the morning. See, there is water damage in the ceiling of my fancy new master bathroom, and now there is water slowly, steadily leaking on to my floor. Not much to do about it at 2:30 in the morning besides lie a towel down (honestly, I’m not even sure if this is helpful), and go back to bed.

I pad, naked and soft, across this sweet, blue room of mine to achieve said towel placement. There is no going back to bed. There is just lying back against pink flannel unicorn sheets (hello, I am quite cool), and thinking about everything.

Something went well yesterday, something went well today, something might go well tomorrow. And I feel… I don’t know. I don’t feel the way I expected to feel. I don’t feel the way I would like to feel. I want to feel at peace, to feel confident that things are going to be okay, at least in the immediate future.

But we are more than logistics, aren’t we? We are more than job security and the roof that I hope is over our heads. What is that meme? “You do not exist to pay bills and lose weight.”

And, oh, my, I do agree. For you, naturally.  Absolutely. Of course. You exceptional creature. But for me? What am I unless I am in the active pursuit of SOMETHING? What would it be like to stop moving, to stop worrying, to stop trying to fix all that I feel I have wrecked?

I cannot stand to be my own friend right now. Like, I can buy them those pink flannel unicorn sheets they wanted, and I can feed them, and I can keep them alive, and I can grant them a tiny reprieve when they finally get a job, when they finally do something good. I can agree to their terms of, “We got the fucking gig, you asshole. We’re eating an entire pizza tonight. Fuck off.”

But I cannot love them right now. I am too angry. Not to be a textbook fucking Gemini, but I do not understand this twin of mine. I do not understand what they want, where they think we are going. I cannot be on their team right now. I will get there, I promise. I have to, I know. But right now, I’m just pissed. I’m tired, and my back still hurts.

(Forgive me, I am so obvious:) There is water damage across my skin, and I long to rush forward, to let everything out, to sink beneath the weight of EVERYTHING finally… just as much as I am desperate to patch up this tear once and for all. To play anything close to the vest, for once, ever. But I don’t, I can’t. I just pick and pick at the initial point of damage until it is something that I can never go back and fix. I’m a picker, a peeler, I cannot keep my grubby fingers off of anything, and I just end up bloody and oozing and frustrated, and, at a certain point, that is just my damn fault.

I am 30, and I know better. I like to pretend that I am this big, sensational mystery to myself (What’s your story? What’s your deal?), but I’ve met Me. I know my own tricks.

Someday I dream of finding a way to gush forward without the threat of drowning anyone. I do not want to be too much for you, my dear. But I have measured my own depths time and again, and I remain fearful. If I spill a single drop, what is to stop the sea monsters from roaring out, you know?

I don’t know.

Perhaps all these scribblings here lately… This is not “spilling a drop,” I don’t think. No, I think this might be drawing you a map. Because you are invited, always, forever.

I just want to make sure you know where the sea monsters are.

Published by Dani

I like breakfast, marine mammals, Star Wars, comedy, the song "Dead Man's Party," and Halloween musical revues at theme parks. Let's be friends!

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