by Addison Crum
Short prose piece describing living with mental illness.
|Fantasies molding in my mind like sand castles; daydreams of afternoon tea and laughter like bells. Evening walks and warm hands watching the sun disappear behind buildings, shadows growing longer. They pile up tall in steeples to staggering heights that glaze over your eyes, and you can't help but indulge yourself with every thought. That is until the tide comes in, overcoming the structures; flattening them into puddles. It is never one wave, but a sickening pulsation beating at the shore of my subconscious; pulverizing all thought into fine sand. Something once so tangible crumbled into nothing, leaving me kneeling in the wet sand as the tide surrounds me over and over again until it sucks me into its open arms, to be engulfed in each drop of doubt. Each ounce pulling you in until your feet don't touch the sand below. But instead of drowning you try to tread water, only you don't know which way is up. Breathing in is half air half choking on the salty brine, and a luxury. A struggle you fight because the alternative is unbearable to even imagine, nothing exists but the ocean and staying afloat. You can't help it. Eventually you wash up on shore, where you're vulnerable all over again.|