As a child I familiarised myself with the idea of not being able to breathe.
Oxygen is one of the most underrated things in the world,and when my uncle unwrapped his hands from my throat for the first time in six years,I relished in the fact I was able to breathe.
Water is deceptive,seemingly crystal clear but it is soft enough to give life (strong enough to take it away)
My first kind of experience with drowning was probably the least metaphorical of depressive one there is. I remember my three year old self overestimating her talents,grappling at things she didn't yet know how to do,but continously tried to.
Grabbing the ends of the float in a way I assumed the man did too,I flipped my body face down in the water,thinking I would rise up with ease and be content with my new trick.
Three year olds shouldn't be in six feet pool areas,but here I was in the water,and it was the most beautiful damn thing I'd ever seen.
Maybe it's memory,maybe it's my dystopian mind forcing metaphors into my mouth.
At first I fought it. The way I was taught to.
I choked on the lack of air in my lungs and the words I couldn't speak,moving my limbs frantically as though I was a dancer struggle to convince people to let her in.
I could feel poseidon's palms around my neck again,and I struggled against his godly strength.
It took one second. I beleive the gods at the bottom of the sea and in the space above the sky saw my worth before I did.
I believe they cursed me with the virtue of the water,soft and smooth but wild and aggressive.
So I stopped. Stopped fighting,stopped struggling for once and just let myself be.
I let the water guide my chubby hands,let it's hands run through my hair and I smiled at the feeling of letting go for once.
And then peace entered.
I watched my hair float around me,my skin turning flawless as the gods at the bottom of the sea beckoned to my mortal bones.
I felt the rhythm of a hundred swimmers reverb around each other,I felt the sun and it's rays smile at me through the water and let me know that it was okay. Giving up was okay.
The people who stepped in the line between life and death were called mortals. They called me ampithrite,wife of the seas and the salt water that fell down my face all too often.
