A Year Without You

I have finally made it back to shore.

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You were a rip-current. An undertow like no other, and on a rainy day I still feel the residual moisture of you in my lungs.

Getting out of a rip current isn’t easy. You don’t realize how far you are away from the shore, from sanity, until it’s almost too late to return. And when you do finally register what is happening, you can’t simply head straight for the beach. Heading straight for the beach would mean facing the rip current head-on, swimming in place, ignoring its obstinance.

I tried facing you head on at first. That was the logical thing to do, swim straight for sanity. But I got nowhere. I was exhausted and still drowning.

You weren’t logical. You were relentless, channeling anger and resentment the only way you know how: dragging someone else down with you. Coughing, spurting, as your salt started to close my throat, I realized that I had to change my strategy.

I had to work tangential to logic because the way you survive a drowning feels illogical. It defies instinct, as much as surviving a relationship.

So I began to swim parallel to the shore. Forget solid ground, just find calmer water. I learned to tread in the emotion, resting in my pain until I gathered the strength to return to “normal.” I worked, inch by…