I Bought Myself Flowers

And then, I let them wilt. I walked into the house one day, having forgotten to top the vase off with water, and saw them drooped on my desk. That was enough for me to come apart again.

I filled up the vase, and half of them came back by the next morning. I’ve been staring at the cuttings half standing, half collapsed, for days.

Dear reader, this is a heavier post than usual. I haven’t written it yet but the fact that I’ve hesitated to do so foreshadows it. If you aren’t ready, just take the metaphor my hydrangeas left for us and come back later (or don’t, it’s okay). But if you want to come closer, keep reading (I need that).

_____

I want to bring you a success story one day. You might argue that I already am one, but to let that be enough, isn’t. One of my strengths is that I won’t wait until I’ve arrived to show you the path. That means I’m opening myself up to being labelled as “negative,” or “stuck in the past,” but I have a feeling those of you who keep returning to this blog aren’t that type of people. I also have a sense that when titles like My Power Grows garner the most reads, you’re hoping that opening those posts will finally lead to a theme of “onward, and upward.”

And then you read the opening lines and realize the dichotomy I live inside of- the more I lose, the more I realize how I’ve even gotten here against all odds.

My body is screaming at me to stop all of it.

The bike accomplishments do not show it, but I have been just barely making it since I was about 13. That was when I started to subconsciously track the deterioration of both my physical environment, and my psychological one. Not long after, I started to step into the fray in a futile attempt to stop it. I was vocal, proactive, and far too aware. And as the physical and emotional violence in my house intensified, I rose with it.

“It’s hard to believe it was that bad. You’re not screwed up enough.” That is one of the hardest-hitting statements anyone has ever said to me.

And because I walk into rooms noticeably wired differently, but coherent and exacting with my language, I get dismissed.

“You’re strong. Brilliant. You can do anything. You’ve got this.”

You’re excusing yourself to leave me to my own devices, again, when you say that to me.

I don’t want to hear how strong I am anymore. I know that. I need you to hear what it costs to be that way.

I lost the job I loved this past week because I couldn’t keep up anymore and they expected me to just pretend the best I could. It’s another ding in my visibly jumpy resume that will make finding stable work a difficult task, again.

I fought like hell to stay reliable for them, and for me. I couldn’t drive without risking getting stranded with an impossibly expensive vehicle to tow. I rode 80-damn-miles every day when I could and risked the drive when I couldn’t. After only three weeks I couldn’t hold the pace and my van’s wheel couldn’t hold air. The last day I rode, I couldn’t even crawl the last ten miles home.

I’ve been so depleted I’ve had to hide to avoid snapping at people. I try to be on my bike still because that has been my means of survival in so many ways. The bike is my liberty, my conduit. And I’m not talking about gentle rides to coffee or jaunts down the trail. I need to start dismantling myself at 5:00 a.m. and be reconstructed by 5:00 p.m. at least a few times a summer. The only other habit in my life that has been around for eleven years is my ability to tell you how sacred that is to my processing.

But my body and mind can’t meet me there like this. I’m terrified. I’m stuck. I’ve been here before, but it’s worse.

I have exceeded the threshold of what one person can hold. I’ve been shot down when I try to go beyond it. Over and over.

Innumerable times since my years in that hell of a house.

I’m stalled not just because of this recent chain of events, but from the mass collective of ones that I’ve had to carry because to resolve them means being able to rest in safety I cannot find.

And on top of it all, people still don’t fully believe me.

And because they don’t believe me,

“You’re strong. You can do this.”

I bought myself flowers because I wanted to set them on my desk as a gesture of grace for what I’ve had to endure.

And then I thought about if the first time I’ll ever be fully met is over the flowers at my funeral.

_____

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for the supporters that I have had over the years. I hope you understand this isn’t about you.

It’s just that people like me need more than short-term intervention. We need structural security on ground that does not move beneath us. My resolve does not make me better at carrying this.

It just makes the consequence less visible. Even when I can so easily tell you- I am not okay.

I wonder what I could be if I wasn’t spending so much energy just trying to keep myself alive. What I have to lose now are my pursuits on the bike, and myself. The floors beneath those are making noise now, too.

A couple of my readers have sponsored me to ride to a race next weekend. If I can’t recover, I’m going to let them down.

I’m going to let me down.

I’ve fought so hard and didn’t stop for water.

And so, I wilt.