Slightly lighter posting the past couple of days as I try and get my lungs to work. A friend pointed out to me once that an unhealthy number of metaphors I used in my book, "Love Undetectable" were related to breathing. I had no conscious idea. But when I thought about it, the whole oxygen thing has been part of the way I look at the world for as long as I can remember. The novel of Orwell's I had a particular fondness for as a teen was "Coming Up For Air." The word I tended to use for most relationships gone awry in the past was "suffocating." When I first came up with some kind of analogy for the coming out experience, the most accurate I could find was "lung-filling." Yep, it's all about the lungs.
I've had asthma for as long as I can remember. As a small child, I was incapacitated for stretches at a time. They gave you this little machine to suck powder out of, and I'd rattle away through the nights, hoping to be able to breathe confidently enough to fall asleep, scraping the encrusted white goo off the roof of my mouth every twenty minutes or so. It's a scary thing as a kid to think that if you went to sleep, you might stop breathing. If I didn't really make an effort, I was afraid I'd be headed to Jesus a little ahead of schedule. I'd panic some times, as asthmatic kids do, which only makes it worse. My dad would have to pick me up, and rub my head till I calmed down and could inhale again. In the last few years, of course, I discovered I was actually failing to breathe while I was asleep, but now my CPAP machine pumps the air in nightly.