Drowning

 

The sun shone warm on my face as I waded deeper out into the surf. The saltwater was the temperature of tepid bath water, and was as refreshing as the sand under my toes. I turned and surveyed the shore, which was further away than I expected. I considered turning back, and shrugged. The beach was long and the water was shallow as far out as I could see, and the various dots bobbing about indicated where my siblings and mom were paddling, much closer to shore than I was. 

It was about that time I realized I could NOT walk back towards the inviting white sand of the beach. What I didn’t know until a few terrifying minutes later was that I was caught in a vicious undertow, and at the time I could not swim.

My feet started losing footing as the swells of the waves crashed over my head, pulling me further out to sea. I understood then that the unforgiving ocean elements had full power over me, and I was about to die.

My uppermost thought was “Don’t panic. Don’t panic.” I kept repeating this to myself. The waves began coming more quickly, so fast I had no time to breathe before the next one slammed into me, pushing me under. I looked in despair at my mom, far away on the beach, waved and screamed “Help!” She waved back, thinking I was having a good time in the water. My denim dress was a sea anchor dragging me down to the depths, and I knew I was going to drown that hot October day in the vast Gulf of Mexico and everything I ever hoped and dreamed of would be gone forever.

It’s been 18 years since I had that feeling of panicked drowning, but I was reminded of that day again recently as I frantically tried to catch up with all of life in general. The feeling of overwhelm and defeat is not a fun one, and I stubbornly tried to ignore it as long as possible. But this week it’s been vicious, and feels like the Gulf of Mexico all over again. The waves keep crashing over me—financially, spiritually, emotionally, and physically. My mind is in a fog that won’t clear, and I don’t know how to pull myself out. I have a punishing schedule and even with the busy market season over I can’t seem to come up for air. Part of it is also my husband’s even more brutal work schedule—he has been working 12-18 hour days and I hardly ever see him. This would be difficult enough without the ridiculously co-dependent nature of our relationship, and my heart and soul and every molecule of my being misses him. 

I am not used to being weak, and I don’t like it. My bones ache with weariness and I don’t know what I need to do to feel better. I will say though, that in my lowest, most difficult, sleep deprived, saddest, most discouraged state I never once had the smallest feeling of wanting to harm my children. Lindsey Clancy can eat a giant fat hairy smelly dick—a whole ocean of them in fact. The thought of what she did to her precious children makes me want to punch through a brick wall. Postpartum depression be damned, no amount of bad feelings justifies what she did!

I’m not complaining or even asking for help. Mostly I wanted to journal this out so that in time I can look back and be glad that this season is long past and be grateful to God for my life. My life really is wonderful and as we come up on Thanksgiving I have a myriad blessed things to be grateful for! 

Oh and I did not end up dying in the ocean. My Dad, an excellent swimmer, pulled me out just in time. To this day I will never understand why he didn’t allow me to learn how to swim and he made me wear denim dresses in the water and didn’t pay attention to the many signs on the beach indicating rip currents. But I’m not here to complain about my dad today, although all of the above is perfectly typical of my dad’s choices. I am grateful he saved my life, even though his foolishness almost killed me in the first place. But that’s a good subject for another blog post! (Photo is from the trip when I almost drowned)