mirage

Sometimes, I think, it is so hard to stay alive.

Get sleep, they say. Food, water, movement. Get sun, but wear sunscreen. Keep your hair combed, teeth brushed. Find friends. Have purpose. Don’t worry about breathing, that comes naturally. But the world is on fire, so get an air purifier.

I am trying to follow all the rules. I sun, I water, I move. I remember to wash. I watch my sugar, even though I ordered an açai bowl this morning. I might as well be eating ice-cream, I think, so I pick at the nuts and chuck the rest.

Why do days like these always seem to find me? Why does my mind tend towards melancholy, and will someone tell me when this ends? Only thrice in my life have I physically, literally, medically, not been able to catch my breath: an asthma attack at 8, another at 27, a panic attack at 32. Yet I regularly feel like my body has forgotten how to breathe. Inside, I am gasping, gasping, gasping for life.

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I checked my order history for the month today. It turns out I have 5 tubes of sunscreen on their way to me. 10, if you count the duplicates I ordered for “inventory”. But it’s necessary, right, for protection? Everywhere the world screams: UV rays? Bad! Think you’re safe on a rainy day? No! Think you’re safe indoors? No! 

So I’m doubling down on preventative measures. I re-apply before I head out for runs, even while thinking I’m just dripping sunscreen-protected sweat at the end of it. See, I am not without fight. I want to thrive in this life. I don’t want to succumb to the terrors of the sun, the whims of the moon.

Still, protection doesn’t guarantee anything. Think of all the babies born despite protection — multiple layers of protection, so many babies everywhere. There’s only one true lesson protection offers: you can do everything right and still have things go very, very wrong.