I feel like most of this year can be summarized by an outstretched hand. One with fingers reaching for another hand, perhaps for comfort, or warmth or life. This year I was like that hand. I kept clawing for attention, of someone, someone to feel emotionally close to. Someone to be able to run away to.
I found myself calling my parents often. Calling people often. I just needed to hear someone’s voice when my voice was pounding in my chest, screaming in my ears, flowing out of my tear ducts, filling up the space in my throat where I was to breathe. Choking on this repetition. This repetition. This repetition that I couldn’t understand.
Focus on the cars she said. Focus on your feet firmly planted on the ground she said. Focus on your breathing they said. I don’t think I heard any of it except that pounding voice of mine dreading the future and simultaneously skipping forward towards it. My biggest fear realized in my head. The absence of time. The waste of time. The sheer threat of missing time.
When the night arrived early and my classes ended late I would find myself walking. I would start out with a destination but my feet wouldn’t allow me to end up there and I’d just end up walking towards a chunk of time in which my voice wasn’t screeching in my ears. Sometimes I’d call someone to stop my feet from walking.
Once I called my mother. Her voice was deeply concerned as I struggled to string together words between the voices clogging up my throat. The street lamps of the empty dock flooded my eyes, blurred by the panicked repetition of the voices streaming out of them. My chest heaving in and out gasping the wet air of maritime winter. My feet frozen in my lilac rainboots moving in circles trying to escape this moment in time.
Eventually I summoned the strength, or I was let go, but the passage of time eroded into one in which I carried myself home. And since I sought to my mother in times of distress. It didn’t always do anything. Often her voice was rushed and absent, as if she wasn’t there at all. The calls were quick and my feet wandered more.
I don’t know why I retreated to my mother. The wound she carved is not healed. I am quick to anger when matters similar resurface. Perhaps I cling to what should be the unconditional bosom to suckle on. When I am defenseless should not my mother reach for my extended hand draw me in and hold me ?