It's a Tornado

Boyfriend and I call it "going wild." We speak of it in almost an affectionate way, kind of like you would a puppy who is lovable but needs to be watched closely. I get far too excited. My pulse pounds. My hands sweat. My breath quickens. I can't stop moving. My mind and body are in a race to reach a finish line that doesn't exist. There are no winners, there can't be. But they still go faster.

This is nothing like a puppy at all. It's a storm. When the ominous clouds roll in, I run outside to greet them. I am captivated by their power and in awe of their majestic size. I expose myself, arms outstretched, breathing in the silence before the storm, welcoming the flutter that is entering my chest. No matter how many times this storm comes, no matter how many times I find myself in the aftermath, I keep thinking that it will be a great time. It's fabulous. It's wonderful. It is not a shit storm.

When the rain pours over my head, it is refreshing. It is a baptism that cleanses me of the sickness and promises to make me better. I am capable of anything. I toss my umbrella. I shed my raincoat and heavy boots. I splash in the puddles and laugh louder than I should. Every idea I have is brilliant, and every moment is a gift. The people inside the bright, dry houses gawk at me as I radiate in the dark, wet chaos. And maybe they warn me. I don't listen. I keep jumping in the puddles.

Eventually, those puddles get deeper and deeper. I'm still trying to jump, but I'm done laughing. In the middle of everything I thought was wonderful, I find myself irritated by how wet my socks are and how my hair is ruined and how the puddles are not as uniformly deep as I want them to be. I suddenly remember. There is a tornado coming for me.

I haul ass trying to prepare for this storm the way my neighbors did hours ago, the way they asked me to when I was busy jumping in puddles. I drag my heavy patio furniture into the garage while everyone watches. I close the windows and lock the door. I grab my kitty, a blanket, and a few cans of whatever, and run to the corner of my crumbling basement. My pulse still pounds. My hands still sweat. My breath still quickens. I'm crying.

It's too late. The tornado easily breaks down the shattered structure I placed myself in. The walls, weakened by years of shrugging at cracks and putting pictures over holes, are torn down by the tornado. As I sit there, still wet from prancing in the puddles, I beg him to leave and ask him why he hunts me down. He spins around my head for hours. He forces me to curl up and hold on to nothing for dear life. If only I had gone inside earlier. If only I had patched up my safe place my head wouldn't be at the mercy of this disturbance.

Hours later, the tornado disappears. I am mentally and physically exhausted by the whole ordeal, but I pick myself up to rebuild my wall for next time. I stack rocks and jagged pieces of concrete on top of each other until I can't reach any higher. It's not sturdy. I am afraid it will fall over on me at any time. There are more cracks, more holes than before.

It's time I asked for professional help in the rebuilding process.