Uncaged

Most of my life I've been in a cage.

A cage of disability. A cage of addiction. A cage of loneliness.

As I cling to the bars of the cage, I can't help but feel claustrophobic. Steel on each side, above, and below. A trap, with me inside it. You'd think I'd be used to this feeling, of being confined with no way to escape. It's not new to me, although the cage I'd become accustomed to wasn't made of metal, didn't have a physical form.

And it was much harder to escape.

Years ago, I was alone. Stuck with nowhere to go, staring at the same four walls hours on end with the same television shows on repeat. One can only watch so many episodes of Maury. Everyone else seemed to have a life, while I was stuck sitting there, strapped to a wheelchair, metal pins sticking out the ends of my toes to correct my deformed feet.

I'd look out my window and watch as life went on around me. Ahead of me. My neighbours would get up in the morning, kiss their loved ones goodbye, and go to their jobs. Whether they found their work fulfilling or not, I envied them. I wished I could get up, walk out my front door, do something, anything with my life. Instead, I was stuck there. In my cage. When they returned home it was the same thing. I could hear them, living, through my walls. The blare of their TV shows, where I'm sure they sat huddled close together, a bowl of popcorn resting between them. Mocking me. Hell, I was even envious of the arguments-- the yelling, shouting, cursing; evidence that they cared deeply about something, about each other, enough to fight for it.

As my hands grip the metal cage that dangles me above the open ocean, fear grips my chest in a firm vice, squeezing until I can barely breathe. I'm drowning, and I'm not even in the water yet. I remind myself that I'm here because I want to be. I chose this. I've dreamed of this. And yet, there's still the underlying panic. The fear.

Fear is nothing new to me. I spent a lot of my childhood in fear. Fear of bullies. Fear of rejection. Fear of being a disappointment. I remember the early days of childhood being happy, carefree, as children ought to be. As I got older, I noticed I was different. Everyone else seemed to notice it, too. Making friends became harder and harder. Soon, the only people who wanted to befriend me were those who wanted to use me-- boys with mischief on their minds who'd come up with plots to get us in danger, who were too chicken to follow through it themselves, who needed a compliant accomplice. Me. I'd leap headfirst into whatever it was they'd plan, with no consideration of my own safety, and I'd take the fall for it, too. So afraid of rejection, of being alone, desperate for friendship, for that feeling of belonging that seemed to come so easily for others, I'd do anything to be considered one of them. Fear dictated my whole life.

But I won't let my fear stop me. Not anymore.

The salty brine of the sea laps against my suit, separating its cold wetness from my skin. The cage lowers, the water rises, and with every inch it becomes more real. More surreal. My teeth clench around the rubber mouthpiece as I inhale, controlling my breath, preparing for the moment when I'm completely submerged and the only thing separating me from life and death is this tube providing me with oxygen, and the metal cage surrounding me.

If only we'd known earlier why I was different. Where would I be? Would I still be here, in this cage, lowering into the depths of the ocean?

Undiagnosed disabilities abounded. Cerebral Palsy. ADHD. Later, depression and anxiety. It explained so much, how I struggled with things that everyone else seemed to find so easy. How I lagged behind in school while everyone else surged ahead. How my peers found me unusual and gave me a wide berth, despite trying my best to fit in. If only we'd known then what we know now. I went my entire childhood knowing I was different without understanding why. As an adult, looking back, it's obvious. Hindsight. I'd have been able to join special education programs, meet other kids like me, get the support I needed to thrive. Maybe even get on some medication, instead of turning to self-medicating later in life.

First it was nicotene. I started smoking young, like an idiot, probably one of those things I did to seem 'cool' and 'fit in.' As if submitting yourself to an early grave is worth it. At the time it felt like it was, and death seemed like an impossibility, or at least something that happened later in life. Much later. How foolish I was. I met more dubious people, began doing more dubious things, hoping that my loneliness, that my pain, would abate. At first, it worked. That what they don't tell you about drugs, both illicit and legal, is that they work. For a while. Then, you're sucked in and you're drowning and there's no way out, no way to go but further down, and you become less and less of yourself with each passing day, and you don't even recognize who you are in the mirror anymore, and your thoughts, emotions, feelings, are strangers, because you're numb, so, so numb, and that's all you are anymore, all you've become. A numb shell of your former self.

The water continues to rise, now above my head. Bubbles explode around me, evidence that I'm still breathing, still alive. My eyes dart through the dark, shadowy water, seeing nothing but more darkness, more shadows. I wait, calm, patient, like an old man on his deathbed having lived a full and complete life, surrounded by loved ones, although I am furthest from that. Death, itself, hasn't always been something far away and intangible. Despite my youthful naïveté, death wasn't some far away, looming monster, but something incredibly close, quietly waiting for me. It's banged down my door, grabbed me by the throat, and taken me hostage.

It was with those dubious people, whom I'd considered my friends. Were there drugs involved? Possibly. I don't quite remember. That's what happens when you almost die; sometimes you lose pieces of the puzzle in trying to save yourself. One minute there had been music, laughter, jesting. The next, I was on the floor, my skull cracked open, screams echoing in the distance, and then black. So much black. Black for a long, long time.

Waking up from that coma was a wake-up call like no other. I remember coming-to in the hospital, my mom next to me, holding my hand. I remember being in pain, although pain was nothing new to me. I remember the long haul to recovery, of regaining my ability to talk, to walk, to function, although I never really recovered. Not fully. What I did recover was a sense of purpose; that I still had so much life to live. Wasting it on drugs, on people who only showed up at the hospital to gawk at me, at how broken I was, was not how I was going to spend the remainder of my life.

It was a long road to recovery, from my injuries, from my addictions, from my lifelong sense of unbelonging. I had a support system not available to everyone. I had a family who loved me, a few true friends who cared about my wellbeing and had risen from the wreckage of my life like beacons in the dark when everyone else had slithered away.

I became a better person.

A disturbance in the distance draws my attention; a mass of grey and white against the dark, endless blue. It appears out of nowhere, like a phantom.

And then it's just me, and the Great White Shark.

Curious, fearless, it swims closer. An apex predator, a killing machine. I look past its rows of razor sharp teeth, into its inky black eyes void of empathy, of understanding anything other than its next meal... but I don't see a monster.

I see a creature vastly misunderstood and feared. I see how it continually moves forward, despite anything in its path. I see incredible strength.

I see myself.

As the shark eyes me through the cage separating us, a moment passes, an acknowledgement beyond either one of our comprehension. It's a greeting from the universe that brought the two of us together, twin spirits glowing bright. So similar, yet so different.

The shark turns and swims away. I watch as it fades into the darkness, carrying with it the weight of my past, leaving only my bright future ahead.

. . . . .

This story is dedicated to my big brother, and is based on true events from his life. I can't think of sharks without thinking of him, of the giant fish tank in his small apartment that was partially responsible for keeping his sanity through some very dark, lonely times in his life. Sharks have always been his favorite animal, I think because they are often misunderstood, like he is. I hope one day he can experience his lifelong dream of swimming with them.

.

.

.

You can follow me on Twitter and Instagram, or visit my Website to read about my upcoming novel!