Sometimes loss isn’t even death. Sometimes it’s loss of self, or loss of relationship. Or both. That’s what this piece is about.
Skydiving and Suffocation
I was being ripped apart, from head to toe. My flesh was being seared and shredded like a paper kite gets shredded in a gale. My wings were taken. I was deposited on the ground, dragged through the dirt. The kid holding the string screamed at me to “fly! Fly!” while running and trying to pull me up again. A kite doesn’t want to fly for someone who yanked her out of the sky in the first place. My spirit was gone. My tail was severed. I jumped along behind him like his puppet, a secure, constant, and voiceless friend. I forgot what the sky meant; I forgot the freedom of blue. Moments came where something in me tried to raise itself up, but the wind was always too strong. I dipped, and twirled, and crashed to the earth.
I was all tied up in knots. I was suffocating from the lack of clean oxygen. Over and over again I breathed the dirtiness of my own CO2, mine and his mixed up in their toxic stench. I was dying – the cause: poison by relation. It might as well have been anthrax diffused into every breath I took, killing everything inside me while my fragile human shell became a mask of skin and bones that just held it all together. Every moment of every day, I whispered to myself, “Just hold it all together.” But I couldn’t inhale. exhale. Expel. Breathe.