During my dissertation on the history of traveling theatrical acts, I came across a grainy old black-and-white piece of footage from a fair. In the silent reel, too few people hold the ropes of a hot air balloon, intending to keep it grounded. As the balloon takes off, four people continue holding their ropes, lifted off the ground. One by one they release, dropping to the safety of Earth below.
Except for one person who holds tight.
I was born with a condition of isolation. Drinking didn’t give me a sense of belonging, but it made the affliction tolerable. It gave me a lens of delusion I needed: This is temporary. It muffled what was insufferable.
I cling to the rope as the balloon gains height. Departing this planet, legs swinging wildly. The people below gather and scatter. Every moment, I am shocked at how high I am, then I’m perilously higher.
On a Tuesday, surrounded by barely-tolerant family, I listen to them read pleas off index cards, voices trembling. It’s supposed to touch me—change me—through the shaming. Instead, I feel more othered than ever. I keep a blank face and endure, quietly stoking my rage.
When I finally let go, the fall is very far. Windmilling my arms and pedaling my legs noiselessly. There is grace in these movements; an artificial tranquility imposed by the silence. I hit the ground soundlessly, grainy figures run toward me, the balloon long gone.
The readers are done so I take a breath to unleash the violence brewing. Instead, a choking sigh escapes. Bodily relief. Two impossibilities: compound the isolation or give up what made isolation tolerable.
Fear of the inevitable forces of gravity that, for some of us, encourage us to hold tighter and escalate the very horrors we fear. I understood this instinct.