Baby steps

One day I decided to not look up.

Maybe not "decided" but it just happened. I saw my shoes, the floor, dirt and gum wrappers. I saw footsteps in the mud and pebbles laying idle. I counted the shoes in front of me and the steps I took. All rhythmic. If I was sitting I'd tap my feet in a specific way: Once on the left foot, once on the right, repeat again, tap both twice. I don't know why I chose to tap twice for each one but I do remember thinking about it immensely and coming to the conclusion that two times was optimal. 'Optimal for what?' you might ask. Frankly, I don't think even I knew.

The numbers bought me comfort until it became suffocating. All I could think were numbers. One, Two, Three, Four, One, Two- on repeat constantly in my mind. When it wasn't numbers it was small things. The way my toes or fingers were too close, keeping one constantly behind the other- and I still do have this problem. The way others chewed too loudly or too obnoxiously. How something wasn't laid out flat enough or how the edges of an object were too blunt or too round. Subtle obsessions. Subtly overflowing my mind like when a tap slowly drips into a bath. You can hear the water droplets fall and it's so annoying it drives you out of your mind. At least if the tap is broken you can leave the room to muffle the sound or if it isn't you can shut it off completely. In both cases you're lucky enough to be able to run away from it all. The drops get quieter as you move away- no more 'drip. drip. drip. drip...' so on. At least you can leave the room. My tap was my observations and all those numbers and the room was my mind. How does someone walk out of there own mind or runaway from their own thoughts? You'd have to be insane but not running from them drove me there so what's the difference then? I got used to it, you could say. I drowned out the noise. I drowned it out but it was still there. If I focused just a little I would hear my very own 'drip, drip, drip,...' all over again, disguised as my thoughts.

After a while, it got better.

I could look up now, just not at faces. I saw walls and desks and windows now. I never did dare to look higher- it had been a while since I had. I looked at photos of the people I loved and had to stare to remember their faces and memorise their features. I knew their voices, of course, I wasn't mute or at least I wasn't mute while at home- that's still a broad statement but it's good enough for now. I knew their footsteps and their laughs. I could recognise them by a touch. I liked looking through windows, especially if I was being driven. I missed the mixture of colours that were absent from the muddy ground I'd been so accustomed to seeing. The pops of pink and orange and red in the sky during sunset fascinated me. It's like I'd been voluntarily colour blind and I never knew what I was missing. That realisation hit me once when looking up high enough to see my reflection in the same window I'd admire the sky through. My reflection. It was like a stranger was standing in front of me. My face was so different to the photos I'd looked at. I knew who I was looking at, but did I really?

The next day I woke up in my bed- or the bed at my dad's house I should say since nothing was really 'mine', things were split and seperated but that was life. I stared at the wall with anticipation and slight pangs of regret which I conveniently ignored. I was going to look up. After so long I was going to look up. I walked down the stairs slower than usual; everything I'd known for at least a year until that day would change. I knew I needed to do this for myself. I thought back to my amazement when I looked up at the sky for the first time in months, I knew I was doing the right thing.

I greeted my father "good morning" and he always sounded so happy to see me. He asked me how my sleep was and if I felt rested. I heard his smile when I said I did; I wanted to see that smile- a smile I'd missed for so long. I went to him and gave him a hug, which he accepted warmly. I looked up at him and held his face in my hands. I looked him straight in the eyes for the first time in a year and I felt such sorrow. His face had more lines in it than it did in the photos I'd studied. His hair, which was slightly longer than he'd like it to be, has specs of grey that hadn't been there before. His eyes' colour had faded ever so slightly but I noticed. His beard, which he'd never let grow longer than an inch (and even that's an overstatement), was all grey now. I'd missed it all. All that time I didn't look up. All that time that I had spent focusing on every detail around me but I'd missed the bigger picture. Here, in front of me, was a man who I knew loved me and would do anything for me. Here was a man who sacrificed more than I could ever know just for me and I couldn't lift my eyes high enough to even look at him.

He saw my sadness and he pulled me closer and patted my back in such a comforting way that only he knew how. He said 'whatever it is we'll fix it together. One step at a time.' and I belived him. I knew that I'd still have trouble looking at him or anyone for that matter but I also knew that he'd be there with me until it was like second nature to me again.