Last night I cried myself to sleep. I am not positive why, but I wasn’t exactly surprised either.
I know my demons. I also know the work it takes to stay upright at times. I live what I preach, call out what I want and keep the rest of the darkness down low to be squelched by all my positivity.
I believe that when you think positive thoughts, keep your feet moving, keep reading and getting support from those around you that can relate to what you are going through…you can get through pretty much anything. And if you add a sister in there that has been through all of your hard and then some…you CAN get through anything. Or so I have believed.
So finally hitting the pillow last night, overwhelmingly exhausted at the mere hour of 9pm, happy to be horizontal, thinking about nothing…the tears came. I became overwhelmed with grief for what seemed like no reason. I felt suddenly alone…even with my tiny poodle snug under my chin, and my loving husband downstairs on the couch.
I grieved the loss of my mother, as I have done for over a year now, the sadness over having my 23 year old son only reachable by phone as he continues to call Seattle his home and the pain in my chest for the struggles my 20 year old has endured over the past year…I grieve…for them and for me. Mostly me, though. Praying for someone to throw me a line.
This morning I awoke with my fourth migraine in a week, forced a shake down my throat and dragged my tired body to the gym. My workouts are my medicine. Even when I am too tired, bluer than blue, too heavy in my shoes to go, and unclear if this time I should actually be lying down instead…I go. Because the end result is always the same: clarity in my life, even when sometimes it barely makes sense.
Many times I walk away with more than a sweat and a clear mind.
I head into the cardio cinema room praying for a movie I can escape to and begin on the elliptical with concerns of my recent dizzy spells repeating. I see a flash of my sisters last text to me from the night before: “Sometimes when it’s very dark and I feel sad and lonely, I straighten my crown and remember whose daughter I am. You and me. Thank god.” Thank god is right.
I note that the title of the movie, Pirate Radio, does not register as a place that will help me escape. I had hoped for a love story. Maybe a story about a prince who comes and saves the day like my husband did many years ago, or a story about a mother and her boys, and a fierce love that only she can understand. Or even a story about life’s’ struggles that prevail with a mother that won’t give up…
But instead, I am faced with a boat filled with ‘pirates’ playing music. I begin my workout with an open mind and an open heart in need of a sweat. In need of being in someone else’s world. I find quickly I am engaged in their passion, and their commitment to make music for the people on land. I feel oddly inspired as they play their records in spite of the politicians trying to bring them down.
I suddenly feel connected to these pirates and worried about them as their boat begins to go down into the freezing ocean. My eyes fill with tears as they say, “Perhaps it is better to die knowing you have lived the life you loved, then having lived without this kind of love at all,” and can feel my own woes drift away as I find myself praying that they don’t go down. I am clear that I am now on their sinking ship.
And then…someone notices a boat in the distance. Just as they have gone into acceptance of letting go, someone asks, “Is it a small boat or a big one? Is it just one…or maybe two?”
“It is not one boat,” the man says trying to see into the dark night…”It is not even two…or three…in fact, it’s a fuck load of boats.”
I begin to sob and then laugh slightly at myself for connecting with this story: That sometimes a preserver is not enough, but that with just enough hope and passion, a fuck load of boats will show up just in time to keep the boat afloat and the music playing.
As my mama would always say, “We can’t see around corners, so just lean in…”
The boats will come.