Not drowning

Staying above water means stripping myself of my uniform, my street clothes, and hugging my form with the ever so tight swimsuit to jump in the water and keep time like the metronome for forty minute intervals. The back and forth, left, right, breathe washing, washing, washing away the anger, fear, guilt, stress, dread, and pain that knaws at the pit of my stomach.
Brilliance and maddness are locked forever in their waltz. Her dress is blending so seamlessly with his suit as to make them indistinguishable one from the other as they twirl there. I am wondering once more if I shall ever know them separately from each other's embrace. Then they separate again for a time and I am relieved that I am not going mad, just growing creative.
I am nauseous. I sleep horribly. The dreams are too vivid and interrupted by disturbances in the night. When I am around people, I am often cross and impatient. When I am alone, I just want to be held. But I don't want anyone else to have to endure these shifting emotions, to be hurt by the fact that my sunshine is like Oregon's, unreliable at best. I am trying to get free, so I swim.
And sometimes, a hello comes in the morning hours that warms me. Sometimes everyone hugs me. Sometimes I am glad to be alive and dream of Ireland and other adventures to unfold. That's when I think maybe something great will happen that will make it all worthwhile.
So I swim. I want to be ready when the good stuff finally comes and prepared when the skies grow black. To everything there is a season, a time, a rhythm. And I swim.