Kymbre Brown

The Undertow

It was more than 300 pounds of flesh. I used to call it by name, until I realized it wasn't deserving of a title. It crawled into my bed, over my sheets. It walked ahead of me for spite and behind me out of pity. Not the spite of quarelsome lovers but the vitriol of a scorned soul. A deep sense of pity for the look on my face. The one of horror and incredulity. There were times when I threw caution to the wind and spoke freely. When I didn't gloss over the lies or the flames that licked my heels anytime we were near each other. I took every painful memory and filed it away in my brain. The indexes marked for situations and feelings that left me speechless and scared. They became my home and I learned to decorate with the scraps of a life given to me. I was good at living with so little love because thats all I was taught. I learned to cry without batting and eyelash, silently. In the shower, so I didn't have to explain the tears. On the drive to work, behind my sunglasses so when I arrived there were only 2 streaks in my makeup to fix. In reality, by the time I walked from the parking lot to the front door, most day the humidity ruined whatever war paint I tried to apply. We used to joke that I liked the pain. I always made a mental note of the laughter that was not my own. How it sounded full and hearty, like my jokes were entertaining. I got angry less and pretended more as the days turned into months. I knew exactly how many minutes it took to get home, I always had this sinking feeling like I was supposed to be somewhere else but I couldn't make it to the airport on time to catch my flight to a new life. I would tell myself it was my duty to be here, to make a home and a life out of the wasteland that was my childhood and home. The idyllic sense of peace that alluded me always came back when I considered all the one-horse-towns that I passed by on my way to staged vacations and impromptu road trips. I became prayerful and vengeful all at the same time. Laying in bed feeling trapped in a sense of emptiness that I couldn't get away from. My eyes would wander to the sky in moments of solitude, I would turn over the days events like there was a detail that would come to me and make it all better with focus. In short there were always two monsters and I always felt inadequate fighting back. I had no stomach for hatred or energy for revenge. As a child I saw the way it withered away at beautiful people and made them hollow. I chose to ignore and pacify my way to what I thought I wanted. Once I only had my prayers to turn to, I knew I had waited too long to leave. I knew I was stuck and everytime I considered driving away, I thought of all the people who have it worse than whatever my momentary complaint was. When the tears turn to hot streaks of salt water on my cheeks, I knew I should rest. I knew the damage had already been done and all I could do was stand still in the midst of the storms that came in the form of people, places and things. It was uncanny. Almost as if the grim reaper set up shop in front of my door so that I would know he was watching me. That's the sense of dread, of anxiety welling up in the pit of my stomach. My body went against me every time the vibration of the room was imbalanced. First it was my brain. Debilitating migranes that came from no where. Then my hear racing at the first sign of perceived danger-beating out of rythym, leaving me breathless. No butterflies. Just gut-wrenching pain that caused me to restrict food in the hopes of gaining control over the urge to eliminate everything I ingested for days at a time. I wondered if it was plausible to be poisoned so I was careful about with whom I ate. My sense of trust erroded down to a heap of nerve endings and heart palpitations. My moods changed from cool to tepid to infrared beams of focus. When I became angered the words came out like a sea of bile. The kind you only experience with virus-induced projectile vomiting. Like a spray of stray bullets too close to stained-glass windows. With every keystroke my thoughts spilled on to scribbled notes, edges of post-it notes and unfinished planners for years. I persisted, until one day I was finally alone. As if I ran to a dead end street that faced the ocean. Standing, wondering if escaping was worth getting wet or giving way to exhaustion. The above sensations were at the core of every interaction I had had for the past 10 years. Marked only by an incomperable sense of joy looking into my childs eyes. Most days I felt entrapment was a game to be won by someone else. So I stayed. I didn't run, I stood still as the tide pulled the ocean away from my sand soaked toes. Gratitude turned what I had into enough. This is the mind of someone engrossed in a toxic bond between souls, only mirrored in like-minded individuals whove felt the pull of the same weight at their heels. This collection of words will seem poignant to some and confusing to others. Its the safest way to signal for help and yet leave space for grace. I've heard we write to taste life twice. Once- in the moment and again for retrospect. Allow me to dive in.