I’m a floater, not a fighter.
I once read that people who are drowning often sabotage themselves by fighting so hard that they exhaust themselves and expedite their own drowning. They also often injure anyone who is attempting to save them because they are wildly flailing and not able to calm down and listen to the directions of the lifesaver. It must have been during a swimming lesson that I remember being told that if you find yourself in deep water, the best thing to do is relax and float. In our panic, we often forget that our bodies will naturally float if we stay calm and spread our body out over the surface. I think I’ve adapted this theory to life. I float through situations because I fear that fighting could lead to exhaustion and misunderstanding, and possibly death (even if only proverbially).
This ideology has gotten me through a lot of things. I pride myself in being adaptable. Sudden changes in plans or upheavals in life don’t tend to derail me. I may have a brief moment of panic, but then I’m able to take a deep breath, spread my arms and legs out, and float. Riding the waves of life in this way let me weather most of the storms with minimal damage. I could call it trusting fate, having faith in God and his master plan for me. I would like to say that I walk the path before me with confidence knowing that it will lead to better things even if it takes me through some dark woods to get there. Honestly though, it is simply my survival mechanism.
The Captain always looks calm as they go down with the ship
The problem with my passive floatist personality is that floaters don’t attract attention. So sometimes they are out on the open waters for a very long time before anyone comes across them and lends a hand. We all know that it’s the customers who complain the most that get the best deals. The fighters of the world have something there. They often get a bad rap, labeled for their spectacular tirades over nit-picky disgruntlements. But they get noticed. Fast. And they often have compensations thrown at them, sometimes to make them go away and sometimes in earnest. The truth remains that a lifeguard is more likely to see a fighter, flailing their arms and splashing up a storm. It’s much more difficult to notice a floater, rolling gently with the waves.
When you see me floating and ask if I’m ok, I think about the fact that I’m not in imminent danger of drowning, so I tell you that I’m fine. I don’t admit that I’ve been lost at sea for days, months, perhaps years. I might be starving, but I’ve been surviving on the bits of seaweed that float by me, so I don’t tell you that I’m hungry. I’m slowly freezing to death, but in that moment the sun is out and it’s not as bad as it was during the dark night, so I don’t tell you that I’m cold.
It could be worse
Fighters compare each moment to the best they could imagine, and when that moment doesn’t measure up, they fight. Floaters look at it the other way. Each moment is compared to the worst moments they’ve endured. They don’t feel that they have the right to complain or ask for help. It’s like toxic optimism. Having grown up with an “It could be worse” attitude, they’ve determined that if it could be worse, they should just be happy with the way it is. While this attitude can be helpful in moderation, when taken to floater extreme, it becomes an unbreakable chain keeping them lost at sea.
I’m a floater. I look fine. I’ll tell you I’m fine. I probably even think that I’m fine. But I’m floating and I might need a hand. There are a lot of floaters in our world these days. You have probably seen them. You might even know them personally. They won’t ask for help, but if you reach out a hand, they might very gratefully take it.