But for me, at least, it doesn’t. And, as it stands, I’m not the one who’s filthy rich. My husband is. I’m just along for the ride.
Up until now, I suppose I’ve felt powerless to rectify it. Although that would be complete bullshit. When you’re depressed – and yes, I’ll admit it, I’ve been suffering from some degree of depression for years now – just getting out of bed each morning is a challenge. The weight of the day is overwhelming, all consuming, leaving barely enough energy to shower much less take on an insurmountable task like totally reinventing my life.
And really, what am I supposed to do? Branch out on my own when I’m in my late thirties with nothing to my name but an outdated degree in the arts and a mildly successful business that, even though it bears my name, I don’t even own?
I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
I’ve become too complacent, too comfortable in my discomfort.
And therein lies the problem. Apathy has become the norm, and the only feelings I feel are the rotten ones, the hurtful ones, the despair and ache and hopelessness. Bad memories swim easily to the surface, and even the good ones are so tainted by sourness that they’re too painful to indulge.
I crave and abhor the days when numbness reigns.
Ford stares at me now, waiting for an answer. His expression is a blatant reminder of why I still need him, even after proving myself in the sack. I need him so I can remember how to live. My life is dark, so dark, and it’s been that way for so long. And for no real reason, either. There’s been no horrible, traumatic event that would make this darkness festering inside of me easy to explain away. And somehow, that makes it all the worse.
I wish I had a reason, one moment in my life where I could point my finger and say, Yes! Yes! That’s it! That’s the thing that makes me feel this way!
Because if you know the reason, you can work outward from there. I have my suspicions, of course. But no concrete proof. No actual evidence, no tug in my gut that, when I evaluate scenes from my past, lets me know I’m on the right track. It seems I’ve always been this way, prone to melancholy, and for years I just thought this was how life, my life, was meant to be. I accepted it, even filled a glass and drank to it, figuring if you can’t beat it, drown it with drink.
And then I read Hollis’s book.
Holy shit, I read Hollis’s book.
It was a ray of hope, a needle of light piercing the shadow cocooning my heart.
For so long, I thought I needed that shadow, my shadow, the one that’s kept me from risking too much, from daring to the point of getting irrevocably hurt. I suppose it’s just another safety mechanism of the ego, a cryptic code stemming from the reptilian part of my brain or some psychological bullshit like that.
But now I’m beginning to wonder. Maybe I don’t need it.
Maybe the wisest thing to do would be to step right into the fucking fire.
Right into Ford’s sunshine.
“Sure,” I say in answer to his question. “Why the hell not?”
• • •
This. This is why the hell not.
The waves batter the bow of my kayak, spilling up past the nylon spray skirt connecting the kayak to my waist. Water slaps my chin, stings my eyes, so that the view of the shore seems farther away, more distant than it is.
I throw a desperate look at Ford, who is bobbing beside me in a wetsuit, just as another waves rolls over Lake Superior’s rough surface. My kayak dips and tilts, first to one side and then the other, taking my stomach with it. “I’m…I’m not so sure about this.”
Ford’s smile is gentle, encouraging. “You’re doing fine, Becca. Great, actually. Now, get in the setup position that I showed you, okay?”
I take a deep breath and place my paddle parallel alongside the kayak, the blades flat along the water’s surface. But when I tuck my head and body forward, leaning in towards the paddle, and feel the dip of my kayak, I squeal and freeze up. A small wave coupled with the weight of my body is just enough to flip me over, and suddenly I’m under, the icy water burning a path up my nose. I swing my blade out like Ford taught me while rotating my upper torso, pulling downwards as I do. But panic sets in when I don’t feel the catch of the water and, frantic, I start pinwheeling my arms, flailing beneath the surface of the waves, the pressure in my chest swelling, swelling, the need to take in air overwhelming. Just when I’m certain I’m going to drown, literally die while suspended upside down in the Great Lake, the kayak flips again, and suddenly I’m upright, my body swaying from the whiplash, water coursing down my face, my neck, the back of my halter top. I take a moment to gather my bearings, gulping in breath after delicious breath as I do, and try to remember why I’m doing this.
“Thanks,” I sputter, swiping the back of my hand against my mouth. My life jacket is up around my ears, and I’m sure I look worse than a drowned rat. But it’s just Ford, so who cares?
My rescuer, the one who saved me by flipping this fiberglass contraption over when I couldn’t, reaches up and gives my arm a squeeze. “You’re panicking when you go under.”
I snort. “Obviously. It’s hard not to.” The water is suffocating, the way it closes in, filling my ears, turning the silence into a scream. Flipping upside down in the icy waves is like being suspended over my own watery grave. I’m not exactly afraid of water, but I’ve never been a swimmer, despite growing up in a state that’s coined itself The Land of 10,000 Lakes. I never had time for leisurely activities when I was a kid because I was too busy taking care of everyone: running our house, watching my younger siblings, and making sure my mother made it out of bed and into the shower at least once a week. She demanded so much of my time, even more so after my dad left, and frivolous hobbies like swimming took a backseat to more pressing matters like cooking, cleaning, and smooth-talking our landlord into letting rent slide in later and later each month.
When Ford asked me to go kayaking with him, I didn’t figure there would be this much to it. This much preparation before I could even start – like learning to roll the kayak in case a wave knocks you over, less you get stranded upside down and drown. The spray skirts are a necessity, but they lock you in fairly tight, and it’s almost like you’re a caterpillar in a cocoon who can’t break free. Sure, I knew Lake Superior was considered an inland sea, that its surface wasn’t as calm as the smaller lakes around the area. But this monstrous body of water makes the others look like mere ponds, even puddles, and until you really get right down on it, you have no idea how the surface rocks and rolls, sways and swoops. It’s alive, a goddamn entity, and if it feels like sucking me out of the world above and into its murky depths, then I’m powerless to stop it.
“It’s just…” I pause, waiting for a bout of teeth chattering to pass. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard. I thought, you know” – more teeth chattering – “kayaking. S-sounded pretty s-simple.”
Ford gives my kayak a little push. “Okay,” he says, gliding along with it. “Enough for today. Let’s get you back to shore and warm you up.”
I dig my paddle into the water. “No! Let’s keep g-going. I want to do this. I can do this.”