The Gasp Of Survival
You told me to hold my breath, so I did. I held it, and I held it until the weight became so heavy I thought I would die. The world became grayer with every increased deprivation of air. My friends and family sounded like they were talking to me through some echo chamber, from somewhere far away. My career sometimes seemed to offer a source of air, but you would soon swoop in and remind me that I had to hold my breath again, just as I thought I might live. And I would hold it, and watch the world in slow motion around me, black spots sometimes blocking some of the scenes, like in the old pictures where the film is worn. But you told me to keep holding it, no matter how much the world caved in around me. No matter how much my family begged me just to take one small breath. I held on. I held on because I loved you. I held my breath because I somehow thought that if I held enough of my breath, there would be enough extra for you to live. I wanted so badly to give you air, to help you rise above your self-imposed prison.
You told me to hold my breath, so I did. Then, one unassuming day, on a rainy night, in my car, parked in front of my mom’s house in the middle of nowhere, something you said caused my body to gasp for air. I let go, and the rain stopped. I was above the ocean, and no matter how you begged, or what you said, I kept breathing. I could not stop myself.
And now I am breathing, and far you are gone, drowning in your sea where you are comfortable living. I stopped holding my breath and suddenly have a future that I never thought I was going to have.
See, when you asked me to hold my breath, and knew I would out of love, you misjudged human survival mode and the grace of God. You forgot that who I was before you asked me to hold my breath for so many years, was always there, would always be there. And no matter how much she loved you, she was not going to die for you. Eventually, just when she thought she could not go on, she would gasp, breathe, and become alive once again.