Object Writing. Anchors 2.8

We do these writing exercises when we meet every other Saturday. This week we wrote on anchors. This may be me, or it may not be. That is what is so wonderful about writing. You never know the context fully, but you can place yourself in the image and find your own understanding. 

Deep waters run further down than my imagination can muster. I sat on the bottom of that floor once, the waters rushing round my head, spinning, and swaying as I tried to keep myself upright. I had no problem staying in place, I was tethered to that anchor you had given me long ago.

We always talked about getting them, you and I. You were the anchor to my life. You kept me afloat. We wanted them together. We wanted it painted, and scarred onto our skin.

And then all it really did was bring me down. You no longer kept me floating, you brought me down. You kept me in one spot. The heavy metal sank, down deep, dragging me further and further into the darkened sea of life, and love. And then you left the anchor there, sitting on the floor, blackened and bitter towards any and all help to cut me free.

We wanted them together, ya know. We wanted to be tied to each other for life. You asked me that day and I said yes, in the happiest of ways. We drew it in permanent marker on our fingers, tying us together, never floating apart.

You brought me with you, keeping me at your side. Never away for long.

Had I really looked to see, it was always bringing me further, deeper;  always holding me back.

Your love was just too much to bear any more. And it wasn’t even mine, but I couldn’t really share.

Torn and tattered, I sat on that floor, it was filling with salted water. Pools and puddles piling higher and higher until my lungs filled, and my breath just wasn’t there.

Listing and fleeting, I couldn’t get out from under that metal, the tether it held on me kept me close, never more than a few feet. I wasn’t strong enough to pull the weight. I wasn’t strong enough to let it go. The rust gathered and it bronzed and created it’s own scars. The salt eroding curves and sharp edges.

You anchored my soul, and I don’t know if I will ever get out from under it.

I found a way around it though; I used it as a crutch for so long, until I used it for my own good. I learned from it. I used it as a weight of my own. I used it for strength, for understanding.

I carried it up and through the dark, through the waves and fighting sea.

A slip back into the depths was easy, but I got so much more from climbing through. I gained it all and got my life back.

 You don’t have that control over me anymore. You can’t keep me going. You can’t keep me by your side. I can go as far as I want now. Not just a few feet, but miles and miles. You’ll never find me. I have the anchor now. And it is mine to carry. It is mine to keep me going. It is mine to keep me strong. 

A Bend in the Road

Sometimes you just have to take the leap. Grab your pants by the belt loops stick one leg out there and jump over the barrier, whatever that may be. You know when you’re trying to leap over a puddle, or a bush in a parking lot because you parked your car in the wrong spot, it’s just in the way. 

You have to look like an idiot. And you have to be willing to do so. Sometimes it is ok, to take the risk and reach for something, even at the chance of falling on your butt and scraping your knee.

That’s how I got to Spokane.

Have I never told that story?

So, I had been doing the post-graduation hustle: working four or five part-time jobs, living with my uncle and his daughter, barely scraping by. My friend emailed me and asked for my resume, saying they were hiring at a running store over in Spokane. I had been to said running store, maybe once in my life. Actually, yes, once. I bought my lucky spikes there. But that is another story for another time. Anywho… I polished up my overwritten, filled in, two-page resume, and sent it off to him. I was going over to Spokane in a couple weeks to run a race and visit my best friend at school anyways, so why not stop in then.

Didn’t hear anything back on the resume.

So I trained for the race, and when the time came, I got over to Spokane, and spent almost the entire day in the store. I ran from there, I met the guys who worked there, and the owner himself.

Tall, giant of a moustachioed man that he was, lumbered into the room, grabbed a bench and was fitting a nice young woman when he interviewed me. I was sweating bullets, not only because this man was much larger than I, he was gruff, stubborn, and a total hard-ass.

He asked me about myself, and I gave him the schpeel that I had practiced on the ride over, stating that while I may not have had experience in the running industry, I was lifelong runner, from a running family, and I was quick to learn, fast on my feet and was ready for anything.

“Can you be here in two weeks?”

Look, it was a job. I had little to no experience in the field, save the fact that I was a runner. I was the only girl in the room besides the customers at that point. And the guys were typical of their twenties. Awkward, lewd in their behavior, and hilariously funny—or so they thought anyways.

“Of course I can.”

I ran the race, I went back home and I gave my two weeks to all my employers. Some were sad to see me go, but others were excited for the opportunities I was chasing.

Two and half years went by, and I experienced a lot. Had my ups and downs like most do. And I became, in my own words, stagnant. I wasn’t taking leaps. I was playing it safe. Not living any kind of life. I was just going through the motions.

One morning I woke up, and I was pissed.

I can live whatever life I want, ya know. I don’t need approval. Sometimes I may need help, but I needed to jump.

And so I did.

I have been freefalling, with a chute right now, but I am ready to jump again. I landed decently on my feet. But I hit another ledge.

SO what do you do? Do you lean over the edge, and then shuffle backwards hoping not to fall?

Or do you back up a distance, and then run at the edge, shutting your eyes a little so you don’t halt to a stop, and cresting the edge, still moving your legs in that circular motion. And you just trust that you’ll land on your feet. Although you might fall on your butt too. But you’ll reach another ledge, and you should probably just take the leap. Because really, you’ll just never know what is at the bottom until you jump.