Anchors Aweigh

I don't have some great redemption story, or dramatic tale of abuse and addiction - at least not my own to tell. Mine is the story of being an anchor. 

I was really, really good at being an anchor, which sounds great and grounding and stable. But anchors stay under water for a long time. They begin to collect barnacles and rust, and occasionally, get dragged through the supple, gray sands to a new location with the same purpose: keep your ship safe. 

And, I did.

I was dense and reliable.

I became an expert at collecting all the heaviness around me, watching it trickle down the corroded relationship chain, far away from everyone else who seemed to effortlessly float above me, cloudy apparitions somehow all tethered to one berth. 

If my job in life was to be an anchor, I was clearly the best damn anchor around.

But, it wasn't my job.

No matter how many times I was tossed aside to dive below your choppy wakes, or how often I willingly hoisted your burdens on my steely shoulders and took the plunge, it wasn't my job. 

Because I, I was made to be captain.

I was made to chart my path, trim my sails, steady the rudder of my own ship, but never, never was I made to be the anchor of your shame, or even my own. 

Because I, I am The Captain.

And I keep my own ship safe.