I'm Trying

I have a picture on my wall of myself and a friend jumping into the sea, wearing only our underwear – which we would later remove so that we could swim naked in the French Riviera, in view of a castle and snow capped mountains.  I used to think of that moment as the epitome of catharsis.  I thought swimming naked on a sunny afternoon, while tourists lay on a nearby beach, was deep and profound and meaningful and freeing.  I thought it was the point of being alive.  And maybe at the time it was, but it was also very easy. 

Two years later, I think I am just beginning to gain an idea of what real catharsis might feel like, of how it happens…  And it is not easy.  Real catharsis is not as simple as stripping off my clothes and jumping into a paradise scene of youthful fun.  Real catharsis feels like putting my own mouth against the skin of my leg, using my teeth and tongue to suck out a snake’s poison while mascara colored tears run down my face, drying and crusting around my nose and chin.  And this self-inflicted pain and healing, so that I might be better for myself and for the people I love, I think, might be part of what it means to be alive.   

Scraping the bottom of my own emotional barrel for the squelching mud and decay that clings there, taking it in my hands and owning up to it before throwing it away might be the hardest, best thing I’ve tried to do in my life thus far.