without a Trace

I want it to make sense. I want to state one tragedy that got me to this point. That damaged me so much; repairs were unmanageable. But that isn't reality. There's no bullseye. Just multiple fragments, some tiny and some large, floating about, cutting me up bit by bit without showing any signs of mercy.

There is no one great tragedy. The story starts with just one instance, seemingly small in the beginning but foundational now as you look back on it. It was like turning on a faucet with one slight bump, then walking away. A leak began, but it took years of accumulating tragedies before you would even begin to notice.

There were good times, of course, where I would feel as if I was just close enough to turn it off. Just strong enough. Healed enough. In reality, I was always stopped by the background noise. The other feelings of happiness scarcely graced me with their presence, causing me to stop and smell the roses.

I never got it fixed; the leak. But this time? I have to. The noise was louder, the pressure building. The door I had crafted over time became useless, much like all of the healing I feel I have done so far.

It wasn't just me that could hear it. See it. Feel its damaging effects. I was bringing people into it with me. To no fault of their own, but here we were. And I had to deal with it.

I opened the door. And the whole fucking room was filled with water. A burning, painful rush of boiling water came pouring out. I should've expected this. No time to think about that now.

AT FIRST, it feels like dying. Water grows hands, grasping at my throat like I was its main power source. Trying to move was like moving through quicksand. Hilarious; we are supposed to be lighter in water.

This came as no surprise. My body has never been kind to me in good and bad times. It's not a body that I cared to claim anymore. All of the problems and diagnoses just kept coming. Blame the body. Blame the mind. 

“Just move your legs; you have to swim, Sam. You can’t fix the problem if you don’t fucking swim!” It was his voice. I can’t see him yet, but I can picture him. Just under six feet tall, with dark brown hair and melted chocolate-like eyes—Star of our High School soccer team, then college.

“Trace, I can’t move. Something is holding me back!” choking out the tears, trying to convince him that this time I actually am drowning.

“I am not here to constantly fucking save you, Sam. Goddamnit, don’t you see! You’re the one ruining our life. You are the one who has to decide to swim.” Blame the body. Blame the mind. Blame me. 

“Our” is what hurts the most. I am so used to hurting myself. I cannot drag him down with me. God, he is too good to go down with me. 

“Sam, please.” He chokes on his words. This is how I know that he means it lovingly. Trace is a good man, the golden Mr. Right. Momma always wanted me to have it: the job, the husband, the kids, the house. But this will probably never last like all good things in my life. And I will, once again, disappoint Momma. Yeah, how cliche, right? 

But maybe Trace was right. I may be the problem. 

All Too Well

“Next!” an irritable voice called out from behind the folded table. Trace and I stepped up and put on our commercial smiles. After all, that is how we made it this far in the first place. 

“How may I help you?” Jasmine asked. I read her name tag. It’s the key to making connections. God, I heard my mother everywhere.

“Sam and Trace Johnston. We are here to pick up the keys to our new apartment.” my voice crawled out from a place of fear. This was a sign that we made it, not because we were running away. And I was fucking terrified.

“Thank you so much,” Trace said as Jasmine gently placed the keys into his eager hand. He grabbed my hand with the other and gently traced my thumb over my birthmark. His sign was that everything was going to be okay. His sign that he knew I was freaking out. But he would get me through this, just like he always does. Just like he always will. Like a man should. Not even states away can I get her out of my head. 

We turned away from Jasmine and headed into our future. One that he had always known was coming for us: a strategic planner he was. One that I had always feared. The tragedies broke me, and I always try to remind him. It’s the tragedies that failed her, Trace. You can fix her. Even she applies pressure. Poor guy. How can I ever repay him?

Trace pushes open the door to our first out-of-our-hometown apartment. Apartment B4. Trace had joked that this was a sign that we should sign our lease here, considering how hopeful the number was. He loved hope, he loved comfort, and most of all, he loved me. God, I know he loves me. Someone tell my brain this.

He picks me up swiftly, effortlessly. His three-time-a-week gym routine has undoubtedly been paying off. After college, he swore that he would never lose his build. After eight years of being dedicated to soccer, he slowly faded into being committed to keeping fit, but not to the point of insanity. He wanted time for things that made him more human in his eyes. Time for reading, time for writing, and time for working on finding his passion. Oh, and taking care of his tragic wife. No, he doesn’t call me that. I call myself that. You get used to it. But good old Trace is always coming back with something more positive. 

“Baby girl, we made it. We are finally home,” he whispers, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my right ear. He fixes my earring, the one that always gets stuck in the crook of my inner ear. He knows I hate it when that happens. Then he kisses me gently, passion releasing from his lips. The softest thing on this planet, I would always tell him.

“I love you, Trace. I think this is what will do it for me.” I whisper back. I am trying not to sound too hopeful, too desperate, too anything. You’re always too much.

“I know you do, baby. I know,” he spoke louder, and before we knew it, we landed right into what would later become the most trying times of our relationship.