Catching Hands

Adolescent and unsure,
I took my first unsteady steps out into a
bustling and confusing world,
leaving the den of excuses that was my
warm and welcoming childhood -
no longer 'sheltered', as it were.
Everyone said I was ready.

Early on, I stumbled.
Honestly, I was expecting it.
Nobody takes off into life perfectly,
no matter what they would have others believe,
and on my way to the ground I fell against
a soft wall of fingers,
several pairs of hands holding me up -
following behind, ready to catch me.
From there I trotted on more certainly,
knowing that I was in good hands.

The road wound ever up and up.

Sometimes the air gets thin, and my lungs struggle.
Stars swim in front of my eyes,
panic blooming in a devastating garden.
The first time,
someone slapped a bumper sticker on my back
with the word 'ANXIETY' in big black letters.
I fell again,
and hands reached up to catch me.
"You can do it", they said.
"We know you can be strong."
I had the strength to seek out help.
But the clip-clip of a days-of-the-week pillbox
scared my holding hands away like the
snapping jaws of alligators,
and the next time I fell,
there were not as many pairs.

Some nights I lay myself down
and wake to find myself clamped in the embrace of
an iron vise,
invisible weight bearing down upon me.
'DEPRESSION' joined 'ANXIETY' below my shoulder blades.
Though I had lost several to the terrifying pill box,
a thicket of helping hands still reached up to
lift me off the ground,
and I was up again.
I was told that they would be there whenever I needed me,
but they refused to go when I needed them to leave.
They refused to see that my days of stasis
were not days of wallowing or of overreaction,
but days of healing, resting, and regenerating.
Impatient, several more pairs of hands took off
clenched at the sides of their owners
into the fog, refusing to wait any longer.

Up to a certain point,
I accepted label stickers for free.
I innocently stood still as
those hands - meaning well - pasted vinyl to the back of my t-shirt.
Before I ran out of room, I thought,
perhaps I should add some of my own.
My flitting flock of supportive friends
cajoled me as I perused the many labels I could choose for myself.
Eager to please, I held up a soothing banner of purple and black:
'ASEXUAL'.
Three more pairs of hands vanished without even an explanation.
I would have expected as much
if I were drawn to the wrong people,
but to be drawn to nobody at all?
Was this an unforgivable sin as well?

Terrified of falling and finding no support,
I tread carefully and bypassed
several shining opportunities,
too wary of the risk
to reap the benefits.

Funny how,
pushed out my little childhood door
and encouraged to be a strong individual,
I learned to define myself and was then abandoned
by the very people who made up the biggest parts of me.
Their broken promises dragged like fragile eggshells around my ankles,
and finally I ground them with my heel,
absolving them of any responsibility,
absolving myself of any expectations,
and ripped away the strips of vinyl from my back that
I did not want to keep.

I kept ANXIETY.
I kept DEPRESSION.
Those things do not go away.
I kept ASEXUAL.
Even if I rocket back and forth between Grey and Demi,
my self-procured label is a comforting variable within a constant.
I kept CONSERVATIVE.
I even kept PRUDE.
They are the truth, and I will not pretend to be something I'm not.
I kept AFRAID.
But I also kept BRAVE.

I ripped away ALONE.
Because the last time I fell,
I anticipated spiraling darkness.
I anticipated ALONE reaching up to meet me,
alongside DEPRESSION and ANXIETY.
I pictured pointing figures and sneering faces,
laughing at the girl who
let herself be labelled,
who refused to wear FEMINIST,
who, of her own volition, slapped on NAIVE.
She obviously wasn't ready to handle adulthood,
and somehow it was her own fault.
And yet -
I fell against a single pair of hands.
Just one pair.
Fingers splayed and ready.
Determined, even though
it is hard to catch a falling person on your own.
And yet -
no longer weighed down by everyone else's labels,
even, I daresay, lifted up by my own,
I was lighter.
One pair of hands stuck with me,
and they belonged to
someone QUIET and STRANGE and MEDIOCRE,
but someone BRAVE and LOYAL and GOOD.
The one person who,
instead of helping to define me,
simply stood back and watched as I defined myself.

And I realised it was my time to be the catching hands in someone else's story.
I realised it was my time to hold someone up as they reached for
AUTISTIC or INTROVERTED or NERD on the top shelf,
wanting it,
wanting something to be proud of, even if it's unconventional,
and wanting to show others how to be proud of them.
Because I was there once.
And just because I'm ready to lift you up
doesn't mean there won't be days that I won't fall, myself.
So on the days that you need me,
I'll be there.
And on the days that I need you I know you will be there as well.
And on the days that neither of us is falling,
we will join our hands together so that our arms make
a soft and ready bridge,
and we will be there to catch somebody else.