Late at night we piled into the car, us and a few bags, and drove to the beach. I packed one outfit and the rest was pills, vitamins, concoctions, and things that make me feel safe. Out of 24 library books I brought a mere four and couldn't help smiling as I pictured their dust jackets, taped safely, laminated bar codes, bulging under my back packs zipper.
The Beach is three or so hours away; I made it in one piece, a bit jumpy and acidic but I made it non the less. I haven't taken a Xanax in 25 days, but I carry it with me at all times, two halves jostling around inside my super pretty pill cutter, just in case. I think its very important that the stretch of time sans medz NOT be seen as a victory, but simply "as is". For seven days I needed Xanax; half to even be able to get ready for work, the other half for when the sun set. Now I do not need it; to that fact I credit amino acids, calcium, various blends of herbs consumed on a medicinal scale, re-learning how to care for myself, and headphones. I am trying not to impose goals on my mental health. I am trying to accept the help of whatever, be it medication or a hug. Whenever I begin to feel panic I remind myself of the two halves, rattling against the neon pill cutter; Its there if I need it. If I'm being honest I don't know if this is a threat or a comfort. Either way, its working.
We arrived at the beach in the early hours of Monday morning. The moon rested lazily on the black ocean, long and bright. I'd spent the last stretch of the drive dozing with my mouth open, a sleep punctuated by waking up half way to sing all the words to three Bob Dylan songs that my mp3 player happened to play in succession. I wish we would have looked a little longer at that moon, but instead we piled into bed clutching our magic pebbles and turned into stones. Now the moon is forever a hazy memory that I hold against my heart like a treasured dream, half-real and faded.
Typically when I got to the beach I walk just along the edge of the tides reach, head hung low, picking out my treasures. By the end of each days walk my pockets are heavy with shells and stones. Each trip it seems has its own color; sometimes I gravitate towards shells with blue and yellows; sometimes with shells blazing and red like the sunset or a rose. Sometimes I pick the stones with interesting shapes, and other times I come home with nothing but smooth, round black ones. I spread them out on the hotel nightstand and admire them; I transport them home carefully wrapped in paper towels. Rarely, but it does happen; I do things with them, like a shadow box or a pair of earrings.
The Beach is three or so hours away; I made it in one piece, a bit jumpy and acidic but I made it non the less. I haven't taken a Xanax in 25 days, but I carry it with me at all times, two halves jostling around inside my super pretty pill cutter, just in case. I think its very important that the stretch of time sans medz NOT be seen as a victory, but simply "as is". For seven days I needed Xanax; half to even be able to get ready for work, the other half for when the sun set. Now I do not need it; to that fact I credit amino acids, calcium, various blends of herbs consumed on a medicinal scale, re-learning how to care for myself, and headphones. I am trying not to impose goals on my mental health. I am trying to accept the help of whatever, be it medication or a hug. Whenever I begin to feel panic I remind myself of the two halves, rattling against the neon pill cutter; Its there if I need it. If I'm being honest I don't know if this is a threat or a comfort. Either way, its working.
We arrived at the beach in the early hours of Monday morning. The moon rested lazily on the black ocean, long and bright. I'd spent the last stretch of the drive dozing with my mouth open, a sleep punctuated by waking up half way to sing all the words to three Bob Dylan songs that my mp3 player happened to play in succession. I wish we would have looked a little longer at that moon, but instead we piled into bed clutching our magic pebbles and turned into stones. Now the moon is forever a hazy memory that I hold against my heart like a treasured dream, half-real and faded.
Typically when I got to the beach I walk just along the edge of the tides reach, head hung low, picking out my treasures. By the end of each days walk my pockets are heavy with shells and stones. Each trip it seems has its own color; sometimes I gravitate towards shells with blue and yellows; sometimes with shells blazing and red like the sunset or a rose. Sometimes I pick the stones with interesting shapes, and other times I come home with nothing but smooth, round black ones. I spread them out on the hotel nightstand and admire them; I transport them home carefully wrapped in paper towels. Rarely, but it does happen; I do things with them, like a shadow box or a pair of earrings.
But this trip was different. I didn’t go to the ocean to collect; I came to let go. I walked along the edge of the tide, foam between my toes. I watched birds. I watched an of-lead dog jump in the surf. Baptized in salt I left some things behind, vanquished, I abandoned them to the roar.
I took two baths a day, full of Epsom salts that have perfumed my hair a permanent Eucalyptus. I shaved my legs, cut my hair; a ritual molt. I wore my Absinthe lotion every day; bees became my friends, bumping into my nose then politely apologizing, admitting intoxication. I took a lot of pictures.
Now that I am home again, curled in the same spot as always, I realize the problem. I am festering, a stagnant puddle. No wonder I feel sick all the time. Scum is suffocating me. Movement is my friend and ally and teacher. I need a course, I need to current.
Perhaps the most practical thing I can do is go for a walk in the evenings, or bike to work.
Perhaps the most practical thing I can do is go for a walk in the evenings, or bike to work.
