Catch Me

Trust is a tricky thing. I know I shouldn't let my past experiences make me wary of you, but they do. I know you're not the one who made me feel smaller, but someone did and as much as I would love to say you'd never do that to me, that's what I thought about them.

Lighthouses are the metaphor in my mind tonight. Trusting someone, romantically or platonically, is like leaving that island where you feel at least somewhat grounded. It's going out into the open sea in your rickety boat and hoping that when the sun disappears, that light is going to be there.

And it is, usually.

But when I was twelve and my sister got sick, a storm hit my boat. A hurricane threatened to capsize me and when I looked for that light back to land, my best friend decided I was too much effort.

I made it back to land and I never trusted that lighthouse again. I know you're not that lighthouse.

But when I finally went back into the ocean I was fourteen and I didn't have a lighthouse. I had to weather the storms on my own and most days I didn't make it back to solid ground.

When I was seventeen, a monsoon struck and lighthouses I didn't even know existed bloomed to life.

That was love and trust, even if I didn't realize it at the time. But have you ever seen a light begin to flicker? Have you ever been a few miles off shore and been forced to watch as your pathway dimmed? Have you ever screamed and cried and prayed until your lungs burned?

Another lighthouse burning out because she thought I was a lost cause. That there was no point in trying to help me when I was so far castaway. It's terrifying to be suddenly sailing in darkness. Horrifying to not know when the storm will end and if you'll even make it through.

I wouldn't compare you to these lighthouses if it had only happened once or twice. Lights go out, friendships fade, relationships die. It happens. But when eight go out in two years, you get a little wary of the sea.

You become suspicious of those that turn on the lights. A fear never escapes your mind even when the ocean is calm, because experience has told me that when the winds change and the water rises up, those lights start to flicker.

So, I start to only venture out when the sky is clear and the water calm. I come home before the sun sets because I won't give you the opportunity to run from the storm. I won't ask you to guide me back when I'm lost. You might do it.

Or you might shut down. You might decide that it's a bad night for you to shine. And I get it. You didn't choose to be my lighthouse. You didn't ask for this. You didn't ask for me to be lost at sea and for you to be my guide home. This shouldn't be your job and I'm sorry. I am truly sorry that I am so often caught adrift. You shouldn't have to save me.

But know that I will always be your lighthouse because I know what it is to be left in the darkness and having to fight your way to land. I know how it destroys your ship and what it feels like to drown in that salty water. I understand that panic and confusion when you wake up back on land. Yes, our oceans are different and our storms vary, but I will never abandon you, no matter how adrift you are.