watchers of the sea.


“No one will be able to understand what that felt like,” she told me.

But her words were a liberation to my being. I can’t explain it, but I felt it. And I knew that it was real.

I’ve learned that our stories are difficult to tell until they’re over. That’s why we never find half-finished books on the shelves of Barnes and Noble; we don’t buy half-eaten cookies at the store. We don’t buy the crackers that are broken. We desperately want to be whole.

The part of my story, as stated above, is a part of my story that is over. But the sequel is about to begin. And it picks up where it left off, but it begins as a different story.

And I won’t talk about this for a while, so if you happen across this post, I trust that you were meant to find it.

I don’t want my story to begin like this, because it’s not where it first began. But tracing back five years would take too long to explain this all to you. I’m starting in the only place I know: now.

I’ve been eating well. Exercising more than normal. Sleeping enough. But it’s not enough. My body isn’t keeping up.

I feel like a bouncy ball inside of a sealed glass jar. I feel like a pop bottle being shaken up, but the soda isn’t fizzing. I’m all there, doing my job– bouncing, or being soda, that is– but not in the way other people can.

And I choke on my breath at the word that comes with it because of the grief I allow to rise to my mind. But my fingertips refuse to allow it to leave the space where it first began.

The word for having low levels of serotonin in your brain. For brains that absorb the chemical faster than normal brains. For brains that can’t produce enough serotonin fast enough.

But it’s not the way you read it on WebMD, it doesn’t feel like that to me. It doesn’t feel the way the media portrays it or the way the blog posts say. It feels like a bubble. And I’m happy, but when I feel sad, I feel really sad.

It feels like I’ve been running for miles on the sand, searching for the shoreline and finding only more slippery ground to run on. I’m ready for the concrete, but its taking me a while to get there.

I’m getting closer every day.

And I will be still. I wait on the shore, watching the waves roll closer to me. If I can’t get to them first, I pray they will come to me.

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