Pools of Blue

It's always like this, isn't it?

The hormones – those damned hormones – raise you up all high-like, you are a toast of some frothy substance. Raised high, you catch the light and bask in it then BAM,

you are dropped and you come crashing down on that cold hard floor without so much as a thin carpet to break the fall.


Only "you" are really me, and I might be exaggerating a little. It's not quite as bad as I've made it there. I just liked using the word "frothy".


But it has been bad – I sit there on that couch sometimes and look around my narrow world, framed by this tiny apartment that feels even smaller now that there are even more bodies inhabiting it. I look around and just feel a foot dipping into that Pool of Blue, you know that one – it's all dark and sticky and just wants to drag you down. Because, I wonder, how in the hell are we going to get this together? What in the hell were we thinking with homeschooling and three kids? This leaving thing – the Pan Am – how is this ever going to come together?


It's then that I feel all kinds of stupid for having a big imagination and even bigger dreams.


And yank myself out of the shallow end of that Pool – who needs that shit? – and I just try not to think of anything if I can't think of something bright. It's the thought version of what our mothers always said: if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. If you can't think of something positive, then at least keep your mind blank.


This picture is a visual to me of what it's about: some things (like the photo in the background of myself on the slide ladder as a child) are in sharp focus and everything else just a tilted, off-centre blur.


That's usually when I feel like I'm going crazy, when myriads of memories from my childhood come into sharp focus.


And they are mostly dark.


Pivoting away from it, from that place of sadness and hormone-drenched Blue, I am intensely grateful that I am alive now – when we can talk about having these feelings at all. That I don't have to pretend that everything is hunky dory, peachy-keen; that I know I'm not alone, that you have probably been where I am. That you might even be in that place yourself right now, you may even be in deeper Blue.


And we all have each other – we can reach out and ask for some love.


We don't have to be alone.

There were better today before today and better days will come again.


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is a deaf blogger, global nomad, tech-junkie, cat-lover, Trekkie, Celto-Teutonic-peasant-handed mom of 3 (one with Down syndrome and one gifted 2E).
She likes her coffee black and hot.
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