Hope Floats
Originally written October 17, 2014
"We're either halfway drowned or halfway 'round the pier."
Mat Kearney, Can't Break Her Fall
Sometimes, there's nothing to say. Sometimes it doesn't matter how long I stare at a blank page, words refuse to come. It's these moments where I feel my loneliest. Singular words bounce around in my brain, refusing to form into full thoughts, the emotional equivalent of shaking up a coke bottle. At times, a situation will settle enough for me to relax, and then a slight movement will knock me off the edge, and I'm back to nearly bursting. Sometimes, it seems like there's nothing else anyone could say to me, that no words exist to help me understand or cope or process. Sometimes other people's words just leave me feeling more shaken and defeated because if I can't figure this thing out, how is is possible that they can?
When working towards my dive master, I had to complete an array of tasks that ranged from somewhat difficult to oh-my-god-this-will-be-impossible on the scale of things that are hard. One task required that I hold my breath for a 75-foot swim. 75 feet may not sound all that far, but when you're trying to swim it on one breath in a boat channel, it's pretty damn hard.
On my first attempt, I wasn't even close. Not even half-way. My second attempt was actually worse than my first. There was a moment where I legitimately thought I wouldn't surface due to a shallow-water blackout (you already know I'm dramatic). My body was spent from the day's earlier activities, and was now trying to swim harder and faster than I'd ever asked it to before - but without the aid of oxygen. My mind was in worse condition. My frustration started to build, and was in good company - my embarrassment and self-doubt decided to show up too. It was a party.
As I tread water and looked towards the end of that pier breathing heavily from exhaustion, my exact thoughts were, "Alex, you'll never make it. You aren't fast enough. You aren't strong enough. You're going to drown attempting this." I wondered how anyone had ever actually accomplished this before. Were they secretly merman?
Two of the people who had in fact accomplished this exact skill a year before were on the pier, serving as my instructors (and are not mermen, as far as I know). They were full of advice, good advice, on how they'd made it through - how I could make it through. But when your own thoughts are tumbling around in your head, bouncing around and denting your foundation, honestly everyone else's advice is just extra noise. As they coached me, I'm pretty sure I rolled my eyes. I probably said something sassy. I may or may not remember giving someone the finger. Clearly, I'm not exactly the nicest when I'm overwhelmed. Anxiety Alex comes out to play and she's a real bitch.
When you're in the middle of a hard situation, it's easy to feel like you're the only one in the entire universe who's struggling, who's frustrated, who's barely getting by. I felt alone. I was so overwhelmed inside my own head that I just could not deal with anyone else's advice or encouragement. I remember feeling angry because they just didn't get it. Their advice just felt empty. There couldn't possibly be any words that would help me finish this thing. So I tried to put up a wall. I didn't need their words to jumble in with mine and create a bigger mess. I didn't want to admit that someone else had faced this exact challenge and succeeded, because my pride would be hurt, because somehow it would make my current struggle seem less valid.
But they didn't leave. They didn't walk away. Because they really did know what the struggle felt like. Sure, no one's circumstances are exactly alike, and they weren't working with my anxiety, my physical abilities, my mind. But for every hurdle I felt like I was facing, they probably had one that was equivalent in weight.
So there I tread, still feeling alone and defeated, trying to convince myself that they couldn't possibly help me from up on that pier. After all, they weren't even in the water! No advice they could offer would actually help me. I was truly alone in this.
But that feeling was a lie.
Because John, probably just as frustrated with me as I was with him, and I'll never forget this, sat down on that pier, looked down at me and said, "You have to trick your body into thinking it's breathing, just so you can get to the end." The advice was confusing enough that I decided to pull down my wall a little bit and listen. He continued, "When you think you can't go any further, swallow. It's like tricking your body into thinking that you've taken another breath. It helped me."
It was crazy enough that it made sense. It was crazy enough that I wanted to try it. So, I did. Instead of pushing away his advice, I pushed all of my frustration and anxiety and confusion.
And you know what? It worked. That little trick got me through. Out of all the mess, that tiny sliver of hope was enough. It was enough to pull me out of my pity party. It was enough to get me to the end of that pier. Sure, I was the one who had to do the swim. I was the only one in the water. It was my body that was shaking and my lungs that were gasping for air. But I was not alone.
That day, in the water, I lied to myself. I was lying to myself when I thought I couldn't do it and that I was alone. And you know what? Technically I was also lying to myself when I tricked my body into thinking it got an extra shot of oxygen. There was no guarantee in that advice. It was up to me to make it a lie or a truth.
Essentially, what I'm trying to say, is there are moments in life when your only options could turn out to be lies, or not-yet-truths. You get to choose which one to hold onto. Underwater, exhausted with literally no end in sight, I had to choose. Was I halfway drowned or halfway 'round the pier?
One leaves you feeling alone, and one gives you the courage to hope. When the coke bottle stops shaking, I think the choice is pretty clear.
After all, I heard somewhere that hope floats. And when you feel like you're drowning, we can always use a little extra help.
Alex
This post is dedicated to my friends, the people who would never let me drown, the people who give me strength even when I try to convince myself that I'm alone, even when I push them away (which is quite often the case). This is for the people who, while they know they can't jump in the water with me, would never walk away from that pier until I've made it. Here's to y'all, the ones who are my hope.