Flood

Two weeks.

Four a.m. The cracked screen of my phone illuminates the pitch black room, piercing my corneas. The surprising pain eclipses the already familiar and comparatively less painful sensation of vinyl eyelids dragging across two very dry eyeballs with each blink.

The kids snore deeply next to me, content and oblivious to the world. It takes every bit of self control to stop myself from squeezing them close. They need a lot of rest and do not need to be inconvenienced because of my guilt. My impulse is only a vain attempt to make up for the hugs I failed to provide them with during the last month; instead of interrupting their peaceful dreams, I decide to crawl out of bed and quietly tiptoe to the bathroom. After a few minutes of hesitation and yawning, I allow my eyes to adjust to the light before facing my reflection in the mirror.

I recall the look on my mom’s face from the previous day. Weak from a combination of nutritional deficiency, fatigue and dehydration I was not capable of taking the kids out of their carseats. As soon as she saw me in the driveway struggling to unlatch the carrier, she rushed out and unsnapped it with absolutely no effort. After shooing the kids inside to be entertained by my stepfather, she turned around and embraced me so tightly that I became a child again. She continued to hold me despite the unrelenting flood until the rapids slowed to a steady trickle; she then guided me to my old bedroom, instructed me to lay down and to not worry about the kids for the rest of the afternoon. At that moment, her normally poised face betrayed her typically calm exterior and that facial expression still haunts me. This morning, I finally see what caused my overly objective mother to throw all caution to the wind to risk drowning in my onslaught of salty sorrow.

My eyes, still unchanged after uninterrupted sleep, almost sealed shut due to the cartoonish swelling of my eyelids and face. My fingers brush across two red scabs at the corners of my mouth and it hits me that I survive mainly on water, not food. My sharp cheekbones make an interesting contrast to the swelling and I am oddly amused. I did not expect to see a caricature of myself in the mirror. Instead of fully acknowledging the reason behind my comically ghoulish reflection, my typically derisive chuckle morphs into a giggle when my own appearance reminds me of a particular Twilight Zone rerun. As I begin to genuinely laugh, I feel the impending tears crawl up my throat. Rather than fight a losing battle, I quickly resign to it and wait patiently for the flood.

Other than a sudden lurch forward, the familiar rush that flowed so freely from my eyes in previous days produces nothing. Desperate for the eventual relief that accompanies the tears, I try to recreate the deep throbbing sensation within my chest after Jer almost convinced me that I was insane. A cacophonus moan escapes my throat, but otherwise I am physically incapable of producing tears. It makes sense. If a quota exists regarding how many ounces a person can release during one lifetime, I definitely surpassed it three times over within the last month. My significantly thinner body, deprived of adequate hydration and nutrition, decided to rebel against my muddled and overworked brain. The parched and swollen tear ducts did their fair share to release the toxic waste of a broken heart, so they decided to strike indefinitely.

After the pressure that precedes the tears finally fades away, I open my calendar application on my phone to regain my awareness of time and I realize that I slept for over eleven hours. Yesterday afternoon my mother convinced me to drink a cup of warm tea before I lost my stubborn grip on consciousness. Instead of wearing my jeans and college t-shirt which I had on earlier in the day, I now sport a set of my sister’s fuschia pajamas. My mom likely asked my sister to come home to help bathe and dress me before tossing me into my old bed next to the kids. That had to be a chore because I am certain that my body shut down all non-essential biological functions for eleven hours to repair itself. The biological drive to stay alive outweighed the psychological need to expel all toxic byproducts of something nameless and indescribable. It isn’t heartbreak. This pain drives deeper than love.

The body and mind cannot withstand being pushed to the brink without defending itself. The tears poured out in such massive, unpredictable, and unstoppable quantities that my body decided to stop it without my consent. When the tears stopped and there was no other method for my body and psyche to release the emotions, I simply stopped feeling anything at all. It is much easier to ignore if I cannot feel anything. It also felt impossible to be anywhere in public without avoiding the concerned and curious looks. At first it made me withdrawal from everyone, including those that tried everything to save me from myself. Then I realized something interesting. If I observe myself from the viewpoint of a stranger passing by, I will likely try to avoid being close in proximity to anyone in my same situation.

Is it right to consciously avoid a person so desperately in need of compassion and comfort simply because it is uncomfortable/inconvenient? Absolutely. Who in their right mind stands near or in front of a weakening dam expecting to survive or stop the impending flood?

No one, except my Mom.

(C) 2014