I look at the moon tonight, and I see this strange, close proximity to our planet, and I feel the vastness of this earth and of this universe. I’m suddenly pulled back in time and reminded of the other times I’ve felt this way. But it wasn’t by looking at the stars. It was looking at the ocean, watching the water, the ebbs and flows of the rivers I’ve lived next to, the crashes of the waves that could carry me away.

When I was growing up, there was no water in sight. We were in a bowl – this dry, sandy bowl. And every night, at the end playing tennis, I would take a moment to look at the mountain range. The San Jacinto mountains are these beautiful mountains surrounding the desert floor. The sun would set behind them and if you took that moment, you could feel the beauty. The colors are beyond anything I’ve ever seen till this day. But it was more than the picture. It was the feeling. It was a serene, almost calm feeling that something beautiful in the world does exist. I needed that feeling. Because every other time, I would glare at this mountain range with anger and resentment and despair. The mountains were the physical manifestation of how I felt about my life. Dead and trapped.

Flash forward to when I got out. I didn’t notice it until now, but I’ve been living next to the water ever since. And it’s so, so different. The water, even in its calm, is almost alive. That mountain range that used to swallow me whole every day – it was created by the water. Water is power.

But staring at the water is different than staring at the mountain range. The rivers? They connect to the oceans. The oceans? Now that’s a different story. Sitting on the beach and looking out – it’s like lying on your back and staring up at the stars. It’s vast. It’s massive. It’s powerful. And it can swallow you whole. You? You’re a speck, nothing, and you can disappear into it and it wouldn’t give a damn. It doesn’t care. It doesn’t have to. In the grand scheme of things, you mean nothing.

I remember being on vacation with my ex and our friends at the beach house. In a moment of panic, I ran away. I ran, and I cried, and I ran. And I stopped on the beach, curled up on a chair, and spent the next lonely moments of my life staring at the ocean in the darkness. No one knew where I was. And I had the same thought that I had before – before I even surrounded myself by the water.

I could let it take me.

The one thing that I felt I needed to combat that thought? Connection. If I could be connected, if I could love and be loved and feel it all and feel its authenticity, then I had a shot. Because at least while I live – here – in this vast, unapologetic world, then maybe I could have that. Maybe I could mean something to someone and feel like I have a place. I have a place. I belong.

Love: it was the one thing that I felt could save me. But in hoping for that savior, it scared me. It terrified me. If I didn’t have it, then I was no one. I didn’t matter. I really could disappear and no one would notice. And when it looked like I could have it, I didn’t know. I was skeptical. I was paranoid. Was it real? Did he really love me? What if I lost it? If I lost it, I would be gone. I would be nothing. And every moment that I should have spent with him was spent instead with the fear. And then, predictably, that fear became a reality.

I couldn’t connect. I couldn’t save the one thing I loved more than anything else and the one thing I became vulnerable to and let myself love. I couldn’t save it. I couldn’t save the one hope I had for myself. I couldn’t…I couldn’t save myself. And if I couldn’t have the one thing that connected me to…to anything, then what was the point? If I had to walk alone forever, what was the point? The solitude of being in this world was too much. It would be too much. And I didn’t want to live every day just to disappear into it every day. To feel like no one cares, to feel like you don’t matter and nothing you do matters because you are alone. So. Utterly. Alone. I didn’t want that to be my life.