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oh my, I'm dizzy. water is in my eyes. ...there's soap. okay, that will clean things up a bit. never mind, it STINGS. it burns! it's washing away the smile I painted on. it's getting into the crow's feet I carved out to make it look like my eyes are smiling. carved out with the same tiny blade that's graced every other surface of my body. I've used it to create punishment on my wrists, reminders on my thighs, grief on my ribs. now I've upped my disguise with my secret weapon. they're sliced deep with a perfect little flick at the end. I don't know if this is what they actually look like. it's been a while since I've seen the real ones. I just know that they're more permanent than the smile I paint on, and it's get harder and harder to paint my smile and tape my eyes open every day. supplies are running thin and I'm weak.

 

oh my God. my lungs. full of water, full of fire.

conflict is everywhere inside of me. 

I'm drowning. but I'm still not all the way down. I'm fighting so hard, but this water is moving fast. that drain is big, and I don't think there's anything that can clog it. look for a drain stop, Drew. wow. so many people are handing me stoppers! grab it. grab it! I missed. I'm going too fast. no, mom, DON'T. do not jump in with me mom. we can't both sink. sister, I don't want to grab too hard. the edge looks slippery. I'll pull you in. Dad, I'm so sorry. I love you guys. can you hear me telling you? can you see the panic in my eyes? does it scare you more than it reassures you?

how did I get down here, away from y'all? did I slip? where does this drain lead? surely it's better than here. I cannot live with water in my lungs. soap in my eyes. my ears. I can't see. I can't hear. I can't even taste. 

I. cannot. breathe.

going down the drain isn't giving up. I'm planning on fighting down there, too. but God, I'm exhausted here. nothing can get worse than this.

right?

please tell me I'm right.

I'm going down. I'm sorry, Momma. I don't think I'll be back. Dad, take care of everyone. don't ever stop giving your strong hugs. sisters...you have all of my love, forever. take care of my bird.

I'm sure y'all are dizzy, too. watching me spin around and around. you guys need a break. you didn't ask to be dragged into this. 

I thought I was a good swimmer. I've never been in a whirlpool this strong, though. I mean, man. this is next level. 

I can't scream anymore. I'm circling close. water is faster, there's more of it. I can't get above water anymore. it's not like I was getting air when I was up there, anyway. when was the last time I took a breath? how is my body still...going?

I promise I'm not giving up. I just...cannot take this anymore. it hurts so bad. my arms, my legs, my lungs. my eyes. I'm bloated and my skin is pruny. I'm not pleasant to look at.

my screams are bubbles...that means there's no sound. but the people paying attention, they see. they know I'm screaming. they see me flailing, and it's making them sad. sad seems like such a shallow word at this point. barely scraping the surface. at this point, where IS the surface? I know it's lower than sad.

devastated. horrified. broken. such a melancholy thesaurus.

3...2...1...everyone throws their drain stops.

thank God. they're giving up on me. they're getting rid of the stops. they're releasing the false hope that they could help me. ouch, they hit me. I deserve it. wait...they weren't aiming for me. they were aiming for the drain! they plugged it. almost. like when you throw all the basketballs at once and like three of them lodge in, and no basket is successfully made. whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, plunk. at least everyone tried their best.

the spinning is slowed, but the water is still draining. should I grab on to one of the stops? what then? do I attempt to shove it in while I'm spinning 90 to nothing? what if my grip isn't tight enough? I'm so weak.

or do I grab tight and attempt to lower myself into the drain and try to slow my spin so I don't get too banged up while I spiral/spin/fall/flail/surrender down the drain.

both of those options are quite the task. last hopes.

I'm so trapped. every breath hurts. every breath is killing me.

I've been in here a long time. 

 

maybe it's not as easy as using a made-for-drains plastic stop. maybe I have to find other things. 

a nap on Grammy's couch to lay the foundation. a few shoulder bruises from Bill's strong hugs here. a bundle of laughs from a Sonic night with KC/crooked pinky joke with Jennah/boat ride with Izack/FaceTime with Connor there. a letter from Dad, handwritten on paper torn out from a yellow legal pad, dated at the top left and soaked with encouragement. orders from Mom and Kaci and Haley to not say another word because if I do, they'll pee their pants from laughing at what I say. tears from a really good cry. the warmth of the sun during a cool fall day. my first paper I ever submitted at BSC that my professor graded with the note "Absolutely amazing. Keep. Writing." (double underlined). the video of Max from Christmas Eve 2018. cuddles from Bay and Scout and Adalyn, handled with care. a firm grip on a cold barricade, and the almost frighteningly strong pump of the bass in my chest as my favorite bands take the stage. my pups. my bird. my rat. my books! a text that says "I was just wondering if you'd like to tag along with us to Senior Night at the brewery." a "Wham Bam!" put in the Zoom chat of one of my improv jams. 

all in a watertight plastic bag.

it's filled enough to clog the drain and give me a soft bubble to sit on and catch my breath.

maybe I can reach the edge of the tub, if I keep filling the bag. keep resting, regaining my strength. keep trying. staying alive.

 

with love,

Drew