Vineger in my Lemonade Glass

My lemonade glass sits on the kitchen table filled to the brim of something familiar but not the same. It stands there, full, alone, catching dust as it's left there to fill the air and my lungs with the sting of something that doesn't belong. Even though I see it, and I know it's there, fear of having my glass empty seems to weigh heavier than the burn in my throat from the wrong acid in my cup. 

 

I walk by this glass sitting on my kitchen table every time I move through my home and it stares at and mocks me every time I get close to it or even consider pouring it down the drain like it belongs. Yet it sits. Holding my breath has become second nature as I move through and exist in my house-, my home-, my safe haven-, a toxic mustard gas filled warzone among unsafe enemy lines. 

 

It didn't used to be so obvious to me that the pain in my lungs was caused by this mistaken pour so long ago, but rather a lack of something inside of me being a thirst for sweet lemonade. This altered perception I had in my mind to allow this acid to be poured into my glass by my own hand has caused me to live a life of avoidance of the problem acid in the cup as I long for the safe, sweet drink that I miss so much- but I can't have it- because my lemonade glass is already full, occupied, and not allowed by my mind to be emptied and cleaned. 

 

My favorite curtains ended up being removed from my window. Vintage fruit printed on soft opaque white. I couldn't stand looking at the lemons- they mocked me and called me names, keeping me paralyzed in a space of shame and anger at myself for something I didn't understand. All I knew was my lemonade glass was being used and I could not use it, let alone touch it, in fear of being burned. This confusion and lack in my mind burned and it did not make sense why. 

 

It wasn't until the burning sun coming in through my window from my missing, disgaurded, innocent blinds scorched my eyes so that I could not see. My eyeballs completely melted down my face, sticky and hot, from the brightness of the sun coming in through the bare window. The pain and horror was too much to bear that I ripped down the next innocent thing. Myself.

 

These veils of illusion were removed from what my eyes perceived around me to be such hell when I ripped those sweet gentle curtains down. Now I am there blinded by a lack of a necessary safety precaution- a boundary that should have stayed up that was there for good reason, but torn down out of fear because it reminded me of my glass of vinegar- that should be lemonade.

 

The pain of existing became too much that a scream boiling up filled my acid ridden lungs to then I cried and screamed and pled for help- the only thing, the first thing that saved me. 

 

A knock at my door immediately after my plea, I lay there on the floor paralyzed in fear. It's exactly what I asked for, help, but is it safe to open that door? What could be on the other side? It could be more vinegar? That doesn’t even make sense. But I haven't left this house in years, let alone have I let anyone into my corridor. Has it been years? How have I survived? What is going on? At this point, time is not real nor does it matter, all I know is this hell that I'm living.

 

Paralyzed with fear, tears stream relentlessly down my cheeks, passing over my lips. Had I not realized how dry and cracked my lips are due to lack of anything to drink since I've had vinegar in my lemonade cup? When and how did vinegar get into my precious lemonade glass? All I know is I did it, it's my fault, if I had poured it or not. That doesn't make sense either. 

 

The knocking gets louder. The fearful voice, twisted and malicious that was crying out that whatever waits outside for me is danger, gets more and more muffled and harder to hear as I'm able to open my eyes and see again. I had not even noticed I had my eyes forcefully closed since the burning sun melted them into nothing. But they were fine. I could see. I held them shut so tight out of the perceived pain, horror, and shame. My eyes had not melted out of my face, they are fine, they always have been. It is still hard to breathe and I am even more confused.

 

Eyes now open, I look around to see my living room from the perspective of the floor, everything is different from down here. The knocking continues, louder it seems, yet not menacing like before. Just as consistently loud as it always was. 

 

I pick myself up. I brush myself off. One deep breath before I take that step to answer the door. How is it that I am breathing without pain in my lungs? How is my throat not on fire even though I am closer to that glass of toxic acid that has been filling the air and my heart? Why can I not smell the painful fumes as I get closer to the source of what was decaying and eating my respiratory system alive, aggressively convincing me that I would cease to be able to ever breathe clearly again? How long have I been like this and how did I end up like this?

 

Confused yet driven, I take those steps toward the door, toward the table- towards my Lemonade glass. There's no going around it. There's no avoiding it. It has to be passed by to get to the knocking at the other side of the door. Still, I am breathing. I realize now that I've never been able to that to this capacity since before that innocent lemonade glass was filled with vinegar. When did I buy vinegar?

 

I take steps forward. I go to hold my breath, but the air seems fresh and my lungs long to expand and take it in, so they do. Breathing deeply, eyes now open, I am at my table. Glass still there of what was killing me, sitting there full. 

 

From up here, not the floor, the glass looks so small. I reach down to grab it, and realize that before, from the floor, with eyes closed, that the old version of me from the floor with eyes closed would not have been extending my hand for the glass. Let alone near the table. Let alone breathing. Let alone standing. Let alone off of the floor- where I never realized I was after falling to the ground in pain when the sun burnt my eyeballs out of my head- that are actually perfectly fine.

 

I'm confused again. My eyeballs are still in my head, intact, not melted, flowing in gruesome manner down my face as once believed. I turn my head to the window to see light coming in. The light is most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I have never felt such peace and I am suddenly not so heavy. The colors shining through project a rainbow onto the front door that I realize is created by decoration on my wall that I forgot was there. I am still breathing. With full, unharmed lungs. I can still see. With able, unharmed eyes. My heart beats steady, as does the knock at the door.

 

A smile comes across my face, something that I come to realize hasn't happened in a long time. My lip cracks open bloody in pain yet I continue to smile bigger. How long has it been since I have smiled? How long has it been since I've had anything to drink, my lips and mouth are so dry, I crave something to drink. How long has it been since I've taken care of myself?

 

Instinctively pondering how long all these things have been, I reach down, pull the glass to my cracked lips, and drink from my lemonade glass- and I don't choke. It's just Lemonade. I am not dying, and I am safe. I finish the glass of lemonade and wipe my lip of the blood that the cracked lip created.

 

The knocking continues, now repetitive, almost sing-songy. From a pair of perfectly healthy lungs, to a perfectly healthy throat, to a mouth that was bleeding moments ago that has now stopped, the words, "I'm coming," pours out, clear and proud. I do not recognize the voice, it had been silent for so long. 

 

Pouring myself another glass of lemonade on the way to the door, a song plays in my head that I had not heard in years to the rhythm of the knocks at the door. Almost dancing as I step to what was the most potential danger of my reality, I unlock the door. All 17. One at a time. Click. Swoosh. Click, swoosh, click..

 

Reaching for the door knob now, I feel no urgency or rush to answer and I feel light and open ready to experience whatever is on the other side of the door- without pain or fear in my heart and lungs. Without lack of ability. Without anything holding me back. 

 

Answering the door, help arrives and asks if I'm okay with a sense of urgency and worry. 

 

I say in a proud, authentic, hearty voice because I'm able, 

"Oh I'm fine, thanks for checking in, I had just scared myself. Lemonade?"