Shore, Sea, Horizon

I can tell how long we've been here by the number of empty banigs of anti-depressants that I've thrown away (and also how strong my prescribed dosage is now). One week today, but it feels like we've been here much longer than that; the routines are firmly in place now. Even Lucia seems so at home here, going to and fro like she owns the place. (Well, down the line, she kinda does.)

My mini bouts of sadness come at night, when everyone is asleep, when my daughter's breathing and the crashing waves cease to outpace each other, and they become one. My thoughts, not as racing as before, come that way, too. They match the cadence of the waves -- but they also match the intensity. So much so, that I end up dreaming the very same thoughts that usher me to sleep.

Last night, I was thinking of everything I had accomplished and how they all lay dormant now, waiting for my brain to go back to normal. Or at least define a new normal. I was thinking of the promises I made to eventually get better, to be happy again, and how sometimes the happiness washes over me like the waves that come...but they also wash away and leave me feeling like wet, abandoned sand.

From where I sit right now, and from mostly everywhere in this house, I can see the open sea. And so I fervently focus on the sea, focusing on the permanently ever-changing shore should be secondary to the constancy of the sea. I see the horizon, talk to it, hoping that it would bring me some measure of peace.

Lucia's squeals of delight bring me back to the present. All the more I realize that it's all about her. I look forward to my long dinners with my grandparents when I learn more about my family's history, hoping I'd get to know myself a bit more...and like myself a bit more.

When all is said and done though, I am happy to be here. The sea air makes my skin sticky at the end of the day, and when I bathe at night, I feel like I'm washing away the cling of the sadness.

You know you're in paradise when everything around you is a metaphor.