Swimming lessons

journal entry 2

I grew up deathly afraid of water. I had heard someone say it was possible to drown yourself if you drank too much of it. Naturally, showering wasn’t my thing either, and baths? They were fine when I was six; when filth was still dressed up in bubbles. But the older I got, the less enticing wallowing in a homemade bacteria soup sounded.

Maybe it’s because I wasn’t one of those pool kids; too busy living in transit to ever really splash around. There were rec centers in the suburbs and the community pools in the project houses, though. I went to a water park, all of once — my floaty was an extra appendage.

That’s the thing: I never could let go. Which is probably why I hate dating. Because even when it seems like you’ve survived the wave, there it is again, rolling its ragged ass through your new shit.

Oh, you thought you got over that situation three years ago with ol’ what’s-his-name? Well, here’s a new and improved version of those same traumas, a foot taller with dimples.

It could just be me. People always say to doggy paddle or float on your back if you’re ever stuck in deep water, but I’ve never been as good as anyone else, so what makes them think I can float too? That idea is even more naive than me.

Which brings us to my next point: my perception of things is a shit-stained window I can only clean from the inside, and it’s the clearest only when looking backwards.

(Look! I’m being realistic. That’s growth in real time.)

So, I’ve never possessed that nautical instinct. You wouldn’t either, if you’d been repeatedly stranded in a suddenly flooded desert, and what did I do? Lie in a ditch beneath the waves.

Admittedly, I don’t make much sense when it matters. Take, for instance, how it doesn’t make much sense at all that now, more than anything else, I’d really love to go swimming.