I’ve got you, I won’t let go.

a song to set the scene // where’s my love - piano solo by syml

I lay in the bath until the water ran cold.

As my fingers began to prune, my naked body shivered.

Curled in a ball, I stared at the stillness of the bathwater, disturbed only by the deep breaths of my quaking body.

The bubbles were gone.

The warmth was long gone.

All that remained were the tears, which flowed a constant steady stream down my broken face.

The bathtub, my sanctuary, had even betrayed me.

I no longer felt safe.

I don’t even remember how I got there.

Oftentimes, it doesn’t really matter.

It’s the fact that I’m there, again: in that dark place, with those all too familiar feelings.

You might know the ones.

Feelings of worthlessness. Feelings of not mattering. Of being a dissapointment to everyone you love.

Self-hatred became the tomb that I was burrying myself into. Thoughts of resentment were like dull prongs of a fork scraping across my tender heart.

You’re worthless, Elan.You ruin everything. Fix your emotions, manage how you feel. Look how much pain you cause. No one knows what to do with you. Who you are is an abomination. No normal person feels in depth like you. You’re better off not being here.

I didn’t necessarily like the feeling and I’ve never cared for the words. And yet, it was familiar. It was almost comforting, in a way. And it was easier staying there; safer, in fact, to stay in that place, than to reach out and ask for help.

Because “help”? Who would want to help me.

I don’t even want to help me.

As I lay there, blank eyes staring at a foreign body that was once mine, I thought: for a woman of my size and stature, I sure know how to feel like the smallest most insignificant speck.

What’s heartbreaking though, is that I truly believe I am the smallest and most insignificant speck.

As I get out of the bath, and sneak a look at my tear stained face in the mirror, my heart aches.

It sinks, six feet below the ground where I’ve been burrying myself in a tomb.

And so I fall. Down down down. As I’m disappearing, the hole gets smaller and the lights fade.

There’s no helping me now.

But somewhere, within the hurt parts of me, there sparks a longing. It almost feels like hope, that I might be saved.

Or at least offered a hand.

To be held, comforted.

Because in the end, that’s all I ever wanted: to feel accepted and acknowledged for feeling how I felt. All I needed was affirmation that something wasn’t wrong with me and that my feelings weren’t something that needed fixed. I just wanted to be, and feel safe as I was.

But words… I’ve never been good with them; at least, not in the moment.

And I didn’t have a keyboard, and it seems I’ve never had a voice; at least, not when it matters.

And so… I just settled back into the depression.

But there’s something that’s keeping me from falling.

An image: a flash, really.

Pictures: of me, as a little girl.

Pictures of me laughing and full of joy, life, and panache.

As these images flood my subconscious, I cling desperately to them. I grab hold of that little girl who’s hurting now and I embrace her, and all of her suffering.

This sweet, innocent child.

I don’t want her light snuffed out. I don’t want her to give up on those feelings of jubilation and glee.

But… I already have. It seems I’ve already let her down. I’ve disappointed her.

I’ve… failed her.

No. No no no no no no NO.

And so, from the very deepest depths of my soul, I speak.

Sliding to the floor, I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. Swaying softly, back and forth, tears streaming rivers down my face, I whisper to her: “I’ve got you, I won’t let go.”

Over and over. Again and again.

“I’ve got you, I won’t let go.”

Tears gushing from the scarred place in my heart where dissapointment, self-hatred, and guilt reign supreme, I repeat the words until they’re the only things that fill me.

“I’ve got you, I won’t let go.”

Replacing the abusive language that comes from my crooked mouth, I continue the mantra, the lifeline, the saving grace:

“I’ve got you, I won’t let go.”

I don’t stop until I finally believe them.

And they fill me wholly with hope and promise.

I don’t stop until the little girl stops crying.

And the hurt parts of me feel acknowledged and accepted.

Until I can breath again.

I don’t stop until I’m aboveground and the light touches my skin.

Until I learn to once again embrace and love who I am and how I feel.

And the bathwater once again runs warm.