Restraints.

Tied to my hands, as though I am violent. I am a criminal. I am going to hurt myself, slice my wrists open and bleed profusely.

 

Restraints.

 

I need to be chained up. locked up, put in a straitjacket because I do not and am not aware of the dangers I pose to myself. To the people around me. To my general health and well being.

 

Restraints. Tie me up. Because I am foolhardy.

 

How often do we think of restraints in that way? In the manner that we have to stop ourselves, we have to keep ourselves from hurt, from pain, from heartache, heartbreak, from financial insecurity, from personal and emotional instability.

 

How often do I stop myself from all this? I live a life that feels half lived because I hesitate at the edge of the cliff. I stand, facing a vast, whirling sea, boiling at its edges, being whipped into utter and total chaos by the winds of fate and the tides of time. The soil crumbles slightly beneath my feet. Little pebbles scatter freely, tumbling down the cliff face. I shudder to think of what would happen if I closed my eyes and took that leap of faith. No. Not a leap. Just a step. A tiny, meager step. All it asks for is for my foot to be placed in front of the other and then I'll be right there to face oblivion and stare at it straight in the eye.

 

I hold myself back. Restraints.

 

I fight a fight that I feel I am perpetually losing because I get nowhere. I am depressed, so says one book. I am trapped within my own circumstances, doomed by my own hand. I fight and I fight and I fight but suddenly, I am in the water at the bottom of the cliff. I am fighting the waves. The water rises above my head and I cannot breathe. Water seeps, drenches my clothes and my clothes are my straitjackets. Pulling me, pulling, tugging, I am going under. I am going under and I am going fast. Not even a moment to draw a breath. I push my hands down and find them chained. Locked. Tied.

 

Tangling arms of seaweed have lovingly embraced my wrists. Soft, gentle, yet firm, unyielding. They do not hurt my hands. They do not hurt my arms. They brush against me, a loving but firm reminder that I shall not break the surface. I shall not fight against what is my reality. I try and pull. Tug away. But I am losing.

And as I look up, the dark, grey skies through the murky waters slowly turn to black. And yet...in the surrendering darkness, I breathe a sigh of relief.

 

Amen.