Two. The number of times I have almost drowned.
The first episode involved one of the only adopted children I knew growing up. His birth mother had been an addict. His psychology was frail. But I was a fighter and broke free from his attempts to submerge me permanently in water.
I should have internalized the bigger lesson: steer clear of the deep end.
Of course, time has a way of healing trauma and, if you’re an impressionable 19-year-old, making you forget past mistakes.
Memorial Day 2005.
I drank too much and tried too hard to attract the eyes of a young man. This time, I came closer to losing life.
Ultimately, the hands that saved me belonged to the untouchable one.
He had the sense to stay sober.
My son’s swim lessons this month have given me time to ponder my youth – what I wish I had learned. Swimming to save my own life for the hope downstream.
I bloodied my knuckles that day, nearly 12 years ago.
But I’m glad I held on.
One Year Ago: To Potty Train A Parent