chey being

For my untempered heart


Holding on

I am not sure how much more I can take.

Today is our anniversary.  Much like the three before it, we fought.

I went rock climbing once in Alaska.  I had on a harness, I was connected to ropes, and a person at the bottom was there to tighten the rope should I slip or fall.  I was about half way up this vertical piece of gnarly rock when I panicked.  I needed to give a good reach to a two-fingered hold, but I couldn’t move.  My arms and legs were beginning to weaken and I couldn’t hold on for much longer.  Everyone began shouting at me, telling me what to do.  They were trying to help, but all I could think about was falling.  Even though I would not fall far, I would swing across the rock face quite a bit and surely slam some important body part against the jagged, unforgiving rock.

My mother was roped in not too far from me.  She could see the desperation in my eyes.  She began to descend a bit and slowly crept over closer to me.  She looked me straight in the eye, and with an extreme calm and confidence, she told me what to do.  I did it and of course, I made it.  One of the pictures I have of this excursion is a favorite of mine.  I am petrified, but I am smiling and saying between gritted teeth, “Hurry up and take the freakin’ picture!”

This is where I feel I am.  Smiling on the outside, but on the inside, I’m holding on for dear life.  I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on.  I just want to let go.  I am beginning not to care who gets hurt.  Where is my mother when I need her?