I felt like a puppet, my wrists and ankles and all of my bends really were weak. I lowered myself into the water and tried to hope I wouldn’t sink. But I did, I hoped I would sink. I did sink. I let the violent air escape my lungs into the water, and I just screamed into the seemingly endless dark of the pits below. Eventually I forgot about needing to breathe. I just stayed under, my lungs perfectly comfortable where they were, almost as if they were not new to death. But then I felt the pulse of my ever-so-human heart ceasing. I realized I had to come up. So I did, I came up and basked in the music that was my own gasping for air. I got lost in the melody of reality rushing back in for that mere moment. The man they hired to fix me told me I should just dunk my face in the water for five seconds if I wanted to bring myself back to reality. It never worked though. That wasn’t long enough. Sometimes the minute I can hold my breath for isn’t enough. I had to push it. I had to push it until the adrenaline forced my body to bring me up for air. If I didn’t push myself to the very brink of my life, I would never feel real at all. I walked away that night with a still heavy pounding in my chest. I knew I’d just barely survived. That was enough though. I had finally survived something. All this time I had spent just getting through things and feeling like I was drowning but now I had literally survived drowning. Somehow, that was some sort of peace…some sort of rest for my shoulders with all of the world’s weight they carry. If there’s anything I’ve learned throughout my abusive affair with life it’s that despite our fights, life goes on.