Learning to Breathe Again

writing, swimming, and the fear of going under

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First, there's the cold, cement edge. (Come on in; the water's fine.)

The lip of the pool, the blinking cursor, the place where something enormous will happen but hasn't yet. Where my body, which has endured so much, remembers how it once moved—easily, slippery, piscine— but isn't sure if it still can. As a disabled person, I need a way to move my body consistently in a way that won't harm it. Swimming, then, has been an oft-suggested option.

I loved swimming when I was younger. In my early 20s, when I was a lab researcher, my friend Anna and I would use our lunch breaks to swim laps. I think of myself as so disciplined back then, but I also loved being in the water. At that time, I hadn't learned to think of my body as an enemy, as I sometimes do now. Back then, it was an easy tool that did as I commanded.

In the city there are hotels that sell day passes to their pools, because they don't have enough clientele who use them. I bought a pass once but never went. I keep standing at the edge of the decision to return to the pool; I maintain the avoidance of stepping in. But I think about it constantly—feeling the pull, but staying dry.

Recently, I had dinner with my friend Ingrid. Over Riesling and oysters on the half shell, I told her that I was working on my fourth book, and that I’d somehow assigned myself to write the most difficult book yet—a memoir about illness and abuse. I’d said the same thing about my third book, a novel that imperiled my mental health as I wrote it. I laughed and said, “I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. Making each one harder and harder.”