Dear Unsealers,
If you’ve made it this far, I applaud you. For by opening this letter, you have indulged your curiosity. You’re no longer fully content to stand at the edge where you feel safest. You’ve dipped your toe in that murky water of uncertainty. Even in the shallow end, courage can be found.
What can be said in these words from the edge? By the way, those boundaries move as you push up against those walls. What once was a dark border of mysterious lands is now illuminated and you’re on to the next, slashing at the terrain with the machete. Or at the very least sitting on a rock, hopefully thinking about how you made it this far and wondering what lingers just beyond your line of sight, beyond the campfire light. I find myself at least peeking around the corners, even when I spend most days scared shitless. I’ve been diagnosed with panic disorder. Prescribed a regular spectrum of pill shaped relief to fill a not-so-pill shaped hole. I’ve had three periods in my life where I was unable to even leave the house. What if I can’t find my way to my destination? What I someone gets angry at me when I step on their foot accidentally at the bus stop? The neat thing about panic disorder is that you don’t even need these slinky narratives to get you to your very own, full blown panic attack. You can just get a few steps beyond your welcome mat, out of your comfort zone and your arms begin to weigh a hundred pounds. Your heart rate spikes up. You get a real nice sweat going on a cold day. Pretty soon you lose feeling in your arms. Your nervous system sounds the alarm. This is not a test. You’re dying.
The colors are too saturated and the air too still and the rattle of an old sprinkler is far too loud. Everything is overcooked and, in the foreground, bombarding you. You try to walk your dogs and try to make sense of it or ignore it, all the while trying not to bump into the painted scenery. You apologize to the pavement you tripped on and then become acutely aware you don’t remember getting to your present location.
Every thought is like reading the same sentence in a book over and over again.
Every thought is like reading the same sentence in a book over and over again.
Spoiler alert: you can’t hide indoors while the world keeps spinning and be able to pay bills, connect with loved ones, or go to your favorite coffee shop. So, you go. You take those miserable steps beyond the mat. You sit miserably in classes and social situations. You return to that space you feel safest and hold the memories. The memories of living your life. You survive these times, these everyday experiences, again and again and again. Pretty soon, the overwhelming urge to hide in the bathroom becomes less frequent. Oh, it will show up again. But please, above all, keep living as best as you can. Enough time goes by and you forget how you felt such impending doom at happy hour and on the bus and in the blank spaces down town. You remember your friend laughing at your joke. You remember the song playing in the background. You remember your life.
We don’t do the dying in these moments when we feel like our hearts will most surely burst. We die behind closed doors. We die slowly in days spent saying “Tomorrow I’m going to beat this thing.” Rush out as far as you can every day from behind those fortress walls and satiate the curiosity, even if you must on your hands and knees. Maybe one day, we will meet out there in the great unknown.