Reagan Wilson: The Diver

Recently I have discovered a fundamental truth about myself that I wouldn’t bring up during smalltalk or icebreakers or first dates; something that to this point has lived only inside my mind, because I believe some things are meant to remain intimate only with oneself. But alas, I recently created the resolution to step out of my comfort zone more, and one of the ways I would like to do that is to word-vomit into the tiny abyss that is my blog again; the way I once did so freely, before I started caring so much about what people thought of it. I created this website as an extension of my thoughts after all, so why not take it off the shelf, dust it off a little, and use it as such?

The absolute core of my identity, the subconscious reasoning behind every decision I have ever made, is this: I am a diver. I jump into the water the moment someone’s eyes catch a sparkle when they talk to me, when a quiet “I’ve never told anyone that before” is slipped into our conversations; when a new hobby makes the rest of the world disappear while I’m doing it; when a guitar riff in a song perfectly embodies an emotion I’ve carried for years but haven’t been able to describe. Hobbies and media fixations typically come and go without any collateral damage- they’re the snorkeling in five feet of water: safe, controlled, not too much pressure. But when it comes to someone I begin to fall for, I dive head first with no gear- all guards down, praying that reciprocation is what will fill my lungs with air so I don’t have to swim back up to the surface.

Of course, diving without gear is a risky game. The deeper the dive, the more intense the pressure, and eventually that pressure will crush whoever is underneath it; all the air will eventually escape from the lungs. I know this not only from lessons taught in school, but from my own experience. I’ve felt the kind of reciprocation that fills my lungs so completely I never thought I’d run out of air. I kept diving deeper and deeper, trusting it would last, only for the pressure to crush me, leaving me alone in the dark ocean, gasping for air while desperately searching for the surface.

Since I can remember, I’ve been in a state of relentless anticipation for my day to come; the day someone doesn’t just stop at the initial intrigue, but takes the time to really see me, to know me, and still chooses me. As hard as it is to admit, no matter the career I build or the amount of money I make or what city I live in, I know deep down I won’t feel successful until I’m someone’s safe place- the person who makes them feel at home no matter how loud or messy the world around us gets. Maybe one day, for the first time, I could be someone else’s air for a change. I want someone who sees all of me, even at my most candid, transparent, and flawed, and not only accepts me but holds on to me, and refuses to let the weight of the water crush my lungs again.

At my core, I just want to feel the love I witness other people embodying everyday. I cry at videos of surprise reunions of long-distance lovers or soldiers returning from war. I trace my fingers along each and every heart containing lovers’ initials carved into tree stumps and boardwalk railings. I step carefully on the beach to avoid disturbing the messages written in the sand. I do these things with a bittersweet taste in my mouth: sadness in knowing I haven’t gotten my turn yet, but also the warm feeling that one day I might be the person on the other side- the one having the tearful reunion, carving my initials, writing in the sand.

And as much as I sometimes wish I could turn that part of me off- the relentless yearning, the ache for romance- I know it’s who I am. It’s a quality stitched into the seams of my being as tightly as my laugh or the color of my eyes, and I’ve grown to love it. I know how to fall in love with life beyond dating, and I know that when I do love someone, I would go to the ends of the Earth to make them happy.

I’ve been all-consuming, head over heels in love, I’ve been heartbroken in ways I once thought beyond repair, and I’ve always found my way back to the surface. And the truth is, I wouldn’t trade any of it, no matter how painful it ended up being. Why would I deprive myself of the beauty of love, of surrendering so fully, just to shield myself from the possibility of heartbreak? Diving is always a risk, but the beauty in the depths are worth it. Love, in all its forms, is worth every breathless moment, every resurfacing, every leap into the dark waters. I’m already carrying love in the forms of the friendships that hold me steady, in the songs I can’t help but play five times in a row, in the compliments I give to strangers just to see their eyes light up. And still, I know that one day the kind of love I’ve been diving toward all along will find me. When it does- every risk, every longing, every gasp for air, will have been worth it.

I just can’t wait for that damn day.

-Reagan Wilson, a girl who has never dove in the actual ocean.