Truth #3 All ships need anchors

Truth #3  I am a ship. A strong mighty ship that violently breaks through shattered peaks of black, moon tipped waves. I float on the still of a storm anxiously releasing my weightless anchor down.  For it's presence, quietly-strong parting the waters beneath and pulling me to the solace and depths of cold lonely ocean floors. Razor tips pierce through ground unseen unsettling a surface untouched. I am a mighty ship silently cradled in the rocking of waves. Peace found knowing my anchor has not failed me. -Me

And the ocean taught her how to drown in all things bigger than herself. The ocean loved her and knew everything that made her. and every time she'd walk to the shore, she'd smile at the ocean because the waves told her story. - r.m. drake

Enter my anchor. 

I hate water. I am one to not bathe. Yes I shower! That is always the next question when I admit that baths and I don't quite get along. I always hated the look on people's faces when I tell them I don't take baths. Like I am some weird creature that melts when water touches it's skin. Listen, I am known to not shower for a couple days and I have admittedly worked out and gone straight to my oh so comfy pillow filled bed rank with sweat and god only knows what species of germs from gym floors. I do however wash my face. Religiously. The rest of my body-depends on my mood. And quite honestly being clean is overrated. 

Not to mention also, when you are an anxious person like myself the mere thought of sitting still let alone bathing still for more than 10 minutes ensues a panic attack. Breathe. Breathe. JUST BREATHE. It also doesn't help my cause and hate affair with all things water that I have a terrible fear of suffocation and drowning. I have had this fear ever since I can remember. 

A story. I was 10 maybe 11 and my family would always go to Geauga Lake in the summer. We were that family with the summer passes and a car filled with junk food for a 40 minute ride. I was a chubby child most likely from the upbringing in a household where income wasn't plenty and food groups consisted of pizza, carbs and pop. So me and my chubby self always stayed away from any type of water ride. It wasn't because I didn't like to be in a bathing suit (well that was part of the reason which later on in life would cause me to self hate my now beautiful curvaceous body.) I hated them. Despised any and all water ride, park, theme, game-whatever! I didn't care that the sun melted my hair to my forehead or that my shorts, like glue to my always more than slightly touching prepubescent thighs. I have always hated the thought of being stuck or submersed in water. Past life. I know for a fact I was brutally suffocated or drowned. That has to be a good if not great enough reason to pin point this debilitating fear. 

So back to my story. This "one time" it had to have been a full moon or honestly I must have been slipped something because I of all people wanted to go into the wave pool. YES. WAVE POOL. 

Enter nightmare. 

Now this is definitely my first rodeo. I am not going to sugar coat it. I sat at the most shallow end of this gigantic never ending beast of a wave pool. The spot next to the crying toddler who has to be in tune with the fear of knowing a tsunami of waves is to hit him. I should have taken lead from that toddler. My brother, the eldest one, the one that likes to think he is a daredevil yet forgets the time we were in a haunted house together and he hid behind me...that brother wants to go to the very front of the pool. Why does he have to show off and go to the north end-the danger end-the end where the water goes above your knee (way too close for my comfort) and sits heavy and daunting on your chest lightly and unknowingly crushing it.  And me, why me did I decide to follow? Did I not remember that I fear the very feeling of the water on the my skin choking me in its chlorine stench of suffocation. I hear it. I hear that alarm. The alarm that tells you this pool is about to unleash a tsunami of wave upon us. I panic. I scream and I most likely had a panic attack but most likely not since those started later in life when I lost my shit after I had my daughter...another story another time. As I turn to run south away from the wave I am too late. My chubby soda laden self is just too slow to even wade through the body littered water and then I feel it-oh my god do I feel it. A rush on my back folding me into myself and under quicker than my mind could have anticipated (I swear I saw the light of that toddler waving me to safety) I am tousled and scrapped from the rough confetti bottom until I emerge disoriented and gasping for air. Horror. Chlorine filled lungs, blood shot eyes and a snot running nose. My nightmare. I almost drowned that day in that wave pool or at least close to it as I like to console myself.  I then at that moment after picking what was left of my dignity and adjusting my bathing suit over my glorious round butt cheeks that I vow will never go in any type of "fun" water for the rest of my life. I head to the chair wrapping my scraped chubby body in my JEM towel and grab a ho ho. 

Where was my anchor then? I can say with certainty it wasn't my brother. Damn him. 

I need an anchor. I know this. I am too artistic and free to not have one. I am helium. I am light and airy and want to be free-even when tied by a string anchored on a child's arm that balloon seems to wiggle itself free. I need an anchor to ground me. I am too emotional to not have the stability of throwing it into my choppy waters, my safety net when I get too deep into myself. I need an anchor to remind me that life is heavy but weightless at the same time. I have always had an anchor. My entire adult life. I have never had to navigate storm filled days alone. I was never alone. The weight of my anchor seems noticeable now, dragging above the surface tied to my ankle leaving it's indented chain in my flesh. I feel the weight. It is heavy. I am being pulled down each step I take. 

I remember attaching my anchor 15 years ago. I remember meeting him. It wasn't love at first sight. It was a simple connection of a friendship. He was nice and attentive. I was 18 and just graduated. A baby. An immature teenager that had no sense of self awareness or drive. He was something of a calm to me. He had a drive that I knew was going to take him to a level he didn't know at the time existed to him but I saw it. I saw it in him. There is something powerful behind his soft eyes. He adored me when we first met. He adores me now. I am his sunshine even when I unleash my downpours. I am his waves that wash away the hell of his day. I am his cloud that hovers angrily over him when I am upset for any god forsaken reason. I am his helium that makes him laugh and smile and shoot me a look that tells me he wants me forever. 

I could feel that he would be mine for a lifetime at the age of 18. 

My anchor. 

I am shipwrecked now. He never failed me. I was the one to let go of the chains.

There is one thing I know. I need to be my own anchor. I need to be able to ground myself if I ever find "alone". It does beg the question though, how do you ground a dancing balloon that has wiggled free from the grasps of steady hands on its way to discovering the truths of the rare visited sky? I must find out because as of this moment the unknown sky above is tempting me to fly.