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.
Richmond, Virginia.
James River.

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.

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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.

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One Year Ago: To Potty Train A Parent