At sea

Finding the determination to continue to swim for your life.

I have spent my life
trying not to drown
flailing, 
kicking,
screaming.
Pushing against the water
just to make it to my next breathe.

I did not realize
that I’d floated out to sea.

Now, I am learning to tread water.
But the shore is no longer in sight.

I am lost at sea.

Water                         a passing ship
Water                         a hurricane
Water                         a glint of light, a lighthouse?
in every direction.
No direction to a safe shore.
Do I stay here
and float
until the sea draws me under,
again.

Or do I swim with all of my might towards a shore I cannot see?

When I was a kid, writing poetry was something I did with a high frequency. I wrote to process my feelings and emotions and to figure things out. Every year for Christmas, I would make bound copies of my poetry and give it to my family and friends. It was a part of me that was undeniable. Like running, it was a way in which I held myself together. It was a core part of my identity. Until it wasn’t. Here is that story, as I have written it over and over again as I have tried to regain that part of myself. Every time I have considered writing a memoir, this is always where it begins.

---

By the time I graduated high school, or more precisely on the evening before I graduated high school, I gave up creative writing which had been my only remaining creative outlet and emotional buoy through the preceding turbulent years. I was not yet 18, but I felt old and tired. Heavy, burdened with too many secrets, too many lies, too much pain and loss. I should be celebrating my freedom- high school graduation but instead I simply feel like a scared animal that’s been caged for too long with bloodied paws from trying to dig out in vain. Suddenly about to be released into the wild. Crazy eyed but unsure what to do but run.

I planned to run. I figured I was good at it. Run far and fast away from it all and start over. No one ever knew I was running, they simply thought that I was taking my pick of the ample opportunities provided by heavy basketball recruitment. D1 athlete, soon. Already two years of college done while in high school. Graduating top of my class. Ticking all the boxes. I should be celebrating.

My family has been gathered in Seattle to attend my graduation, and on that night, the night before my graduation we are all seated together around a long large table at Anthony’s on the waterfront. I am seated in the middle of the table, Erin to my right. Occasionally, I squeeze her hand under the table “Dear god, save me.”

My dad, aunt Pat, cousin Alexa, grandmother and stepmother, Sandy are to the end also on my right. My sister and her best friend Keau across from me. My mom, cousin Erika, aunt Sue and uncle Ray to my left. I try to be cordial, engaged, happy. Push down the screaming rage that wants to bubble up and rear its ugly head. Tell them they don’t know me, they aren’t there for me. Instead I sit back and listen to them praise my good behavior, my exceptional grades.

It is not secret to me the tension drawn tight across the table. Family member to family member. Ready to snap in a silent sudden recoil. They’ve made camp to my left and to my right, comfortable little cocoons of acceptable allies. I am watched carefully, approached with fake enthusiasm and smiles. I know I have risen to black sheep status. I know secretly they have built up dramatic stories of who I am that bare little resemblance to the truth. I was the black sheep, the wild child, the selfish brat, the emotional, the youngest child. For years, they openly called me “the squeaky wheel”, even though I have no insight as to why as I was quite obliging.  They didn’t know me. They didn’t hear me screaming for help because they’d already determined who I was before I even opened my mouth. Ungrateful, mean, I didn’t fit the boxes they wanted me to crawl into.

But really, I did. I had a 4.0. I had a full ride basketball scholarship. I had college credit. I was polite, obedient. I lived up to their expectations in every way I thought I possibly could. I wanted my family to love me, to see me. I was flailing in the dark and just wanted to find a hand to hold.

I just wanted to make it through dinner without incident, without the tension snapping. Without a way beginning, without all hell breaking loose.

I did not succeed.

We made it through appetizers, maybe. I was relaxing into the comforts of conversation with EP, my sister and Keau. I let my guard down and started to delight in my family enjoying themselves. Each camp keeping to themselves. We’d successfully passed through an overly sentimental drunk toast by my father, who had not been a party to any of my high school years. I breathed deeply. Maybe me as an adult I will find a safe place with my family, maybe me now will be understood. I dropped my sword down, unlatched my armor a little. Leaned into conversation with my mom, cousin, aunt sue and uncle ray.

They want to know more about my plans for studying at Fresno State University.

“Well, as you know, I am going there to study Animal Science. I will eventually apply to vet school. I’d like to work with horses.” Nods of approval. Such a stable, secure, acceptable path. “Though, I also really want to be a writer, too.” Faces dropped.

It was no secret I was a writer. I had been writing poetry for years. Giving books of my poetry that I had meticulously printed and bound at the local kinks as Christmas presents. Writing was my outlet. Along with running, it was my only release from the immense anguish, confusion, hurt and anger I felt on a daily basis. It was my only way to push back the terror, the tears. My way to process, comprehend. Run then write. Run until I couldn’t anymore then furiously write. Dripping agony filled lines that no one acknowledged and no one heard, no matter how obviously I put it in front of them.

Writing saved me from drowning.

No sooner had the words left my mouth did I realize my error. Sword down, armor off, defenseless and unready for the impending ambush. I realized my error the second the words left my mouth; too vulnerable, too off script, not ok.

They snickered a little, then emboldened by each other, fully laughed in my face.

“A writer?” Hilarious. Stupid silly girl. Then they took turns preferring up their opinion, ridicule my desire to write. Didn’t I know creative living was hard, didn’t I know it didn’t pay. Didn’t I know I would never do anything worth while.

“I have a lot of rich writer friends” My cousin offered and the others laughed. My aunt and uncle explained to me that even if I was talented, which I most definitely WAS NOT, being a writer was too hard, too much. Didn’t I appreciate all the sacrifices that everyone had made for me to BE something? My mother simply told me it was silly and unrealistic.

I listened to them. Every word like a stone on my chest, slowly robbing me of the ability to breathe. When they finally stopped talking, I could only stammer the defense,

“But I am going to write too…not as my career. Vet school. Remember?” They remembered but cared little. I tried to breathe. Tears burned my eyes, my cheeks turned bright red. I turned my face towards EP and buried my face in her shoulder. My chest heaved, the tears exploded and with it deep heavy sobs. My sister came over to my side and I pressed my face into her. My family didn’t even notice until my sister asked them. “What the hell did you guys do?”

What did they do? They robbed me of my voice, the only tool other than running that kept me afloat. The only thing that saved me. They burnt it down, they destroyed it. I could feel the words leave me, the pen drop my hand. Where it would stay for years to come. Replaced with shame, fear and unworthiness of that moment. Writing was not ok. I was not ok if I wanted to be a writer, not accepted, not loved. Cast out further than I already was, the farthest pasture for the lowly bleating black sheep.

Fueled with alcohol and group think upon seeing my tears they doubled down. Don’t be silly little girl, we are just telling you the truth. How dare you act as if we haven’t just done you a favor. They defended their words, they acted afronted by my tears.

I couldn’t take it. I leapt up from the table and ran to the bathroom, sobbing. I was so alone, so hurt. I locked myself in a stall. I couldn’t take it. My sister followed me , but I sent her back to the table to retrieve EP whom I’d come to the party with.

“Get EP, tell her to get the car from valet. We are leaving.” My sister hesitated for a second but obeyed. I was about to walk out on my own graduation dinner. Half the table would be angry because I was ungrateful for the lovely party being thrown for me, the other half angry I didn’t appreciate them “saving me the trouble”.

I waited in the bathroom for my sister to return to tell me the car was ready. Instead my mom came in. Apologetic but not for what she said, nor for her contribution. Taking no responsibility.

“I am so sorry THEY said those things.” They? She had been riding shotgun on the whole conversation, cosigning at every turn, contributing affirmative votes in the “stay safe and secure” column. She had been my whole life. Heck I was no dummy in my plan to have writing be an “also” in my life. But apparently even that was too much.

“Don’t bullshit me.” I said to my mother. “You are not innocent, you were practically leading the charge.” I walked out of the bathroom, refusing to stay trapped and cornered. I walked down the stairs and out the door. Drove away with my fork still resting on a salad plate with a half eaten salad on it, leaving a table full of family, now fully united in one thought “What an asshole. How dare I?”

I knew the power of walking out. I knew the ripples would be great. It was the cowards way out- as much as they thought I was the rebel, the black sheep I didn’t have the courage to stand up to them or more I didn’t think I was worthy enough to stand up for myself. And so I ran. If writing was dead, I could still run and I did.

My graduation the next day was a somber affair. No one spoke of the evening before, no one acknowledged the massive elephant in the room. The story told after my departure from the table cast me as the ungrateful angry villain. My uncle Ray with whom I had been so close my entire childhood, who had been more a father to me then my biological one, refused to attend my graduation. My aunt Pat held it against me for years that I had been so ungrateful as to walk out on the lovely dinner my dad was providing. Despite the fact that he hadn’t even noticed until dessert was done and the bill came that I wasn’t even there anymore.

We forced a few photos. We endured the ceremony and returned to my mother’s house where everyone stood in awkward punishing silence and ate cake. Happy fucking graduation.

This experience fundamentally changed who I was. Until that moment, I was creative and daring with my pen in my hand. Emboldened. The pen gave me the closest thing to a voice, it allowed me to scream, “please help me”.

But after that moment, the pen in my hand made my chest feel tight, the fear would creep up my spine until I shivered. I couldn’t write unless it was perfect. Unless it was magic, unless it was enough to prove them wrong. And it never could be. I was paralyzed. So I wrote less, and less and less until it stopped. Each further attempt simply became an exercise in self loathing and contempt. Writing was dead to me and with its passing part of me died too. A wound I could never recover, a moment replayed over and over again in my nightmares.

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I have fought against the impact of that day for years. I have tried to regain that part of my identity. I worked to patiently untie that knot. I do think or hope that my voice matters but I am not always brave enough to use it. I frequently stumble out of the gate. I frequently retreat. I frequently begin only to say to myself, “why even bother?”. I wait for permission or invitation that will may never come. But I am still trying, these 24 years later, to bring back to life the fearless writer I had inside of me. I am still trying to heal that wound. My sister calls me “the Queen of Trying Hard” and even though I have not yet succeeded in this, I am determined to continue to try. Keep trying. It matters.