Sanity is situational

I am perched precariously on the edge of a caged tower, and though the odds of falling are poor I cannot shake the fear that grips my heart. Perhaps paranoia is the overwhelming fear of the potentially possible but highly improbable; if so, I hope this is merely paranoia.

I am at the park with my child, having vacated the house so The Man could make phone calls and receive a scheduled phone interview, and the tower I am perched on and the fear of falling are quite physically literal; the Boychick, while perfectly content to make the play structure circuit himself (stairs, tunnel, bridge, ladder, slide, repeat), wants me here, at the pinnacle of the playground, whether for company or assistance I cannot tell and he’s not telling.

But here I am, I am here, afraid I will watch him fall, afraid I will fall, afraid I am falling metaphorically, actually, emotionally, and no one will be able to catch me. The Man will never be employed again, we’ll not be able to pay rent, not buy food, not pay debt, not pay for meds and blood tests, not keep our pets, not keep my sanity, not keep my life. Am I falling, falling into hell, back into a dark pit I can never forget, have never stopped running away from? I fear I am, and fear the fear is the start of the fall.

Or am I flying? Flying, soaring, so certain that this will be better, amazing, that we’ve written such a kick-ass resume that he’ll get a better job, more pay, less stress, better benefits, less commute, and we’ll pay off all debt, and buy a house, and have wealth to share, and I’ll be better than sane, and everything will be brilliant. I am flying, flying, and nothing can stop me, so what is this pounding in my heart, and why can’t I catch my breath? Why isn’t this fun?

Because I know falling and flying are a hair’s breadth apart, and I flit between the two, not with reckless abandon, but abandoned by my anchors, a wreck waiting to happen.

Or so I fear; and is the cold, hot, heart-wrenching fear of going crazy a sign of already having gone? Is this mental illness, or all in my mind? Is it a good thing I can still laugh at the absurdity of that question?

All will be well, one way or another. I cling to this as a life preserver (a life preserver for falling/flying; full of hot air?), try to draw a breath, try to just breathe, try to just be. All will be well, and I will be well, and all manner of things will be well.

So mote it be.