It’s easy to fall. It starts slow, with a slip or a misstep, and then a stumble, and I try to catch myself but I lose my footing and the ground crumbles out from under me and I’m falling. It comes to the point when I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. My actions and words are foreign and I watch as I spiral further down, trying desperately not to lose control, but the more I fight back, the more tangled I become, and I’m caught, running like a fool in a maze with no end.
It’s easy to fall, and once falling, it’s hard to stop. It’s hard to climb and scratch and claw my way back to the surface and I don’t want to, until I’m sitting at the bottom of a hole I dug myself into looking up at what once was but isn’t anymore. I realize I like falling. I like the feeling of recklessness and impulsive decisions, until I see my reflection in the eyes of a friend, or a family member, or a kind stranger, and what I see is not me.
It’s easy to fall, it’s the impact that hurts the most. The moment when I hit the bottom, when I look around and see the mess I’ve made and the people I’ve dislodged and brought crashing down with me as I haphazardly grabbed at anything that I thought would make the landing more bearable. But the landing was not more bearable and I realize I can’t fall anymore, but I’ve said that before and I’ll say it again, and I falter and hesitate as I pick myself up off the ground watching the sunrise as it sheds new light on my existence and in this instant, all is right in the world.
In response to the Daily Post’s Prompt: Easy Fix.