Drowning

[eaten_by_bears]

Just writing out some memories. Under a cut for child abuse.

This isn’t a long story, but it has some background. I’m going to use bullet points.



• I have some history of having my airway restricted. I was strangled. My mouth was washed out with soap by very aggressively jabbing a washcloth in until I gagged. I was shut in a hot car, with the air running out. I swam too far into the deep end at a water park when I was very young, bobbing, over my head, trying to make eye contact with a lifeguard, not knowing if I should scream for help. Too weak to swim back in the crowded, moving wave pool as I struggled to take a breath. I really, really hate not being able to breathe.


• When I’m panicked, I pant. I used to say hyperventilate, but I read somewhere that hyperventilation is quick, deep breaths, and panting is quick, shallow ones. It doesn’t happen as often now, but it happened a lot when I was a child. If I feel trapped. If I can’t get away. If someone’s touching me and I want them to stop. If I’m pinned to the ground. If a teacher has me sat down in a room with them grilling me about why I won’t act right, why I won’t do the assignment, why I say things wrong, why I get in fights. Loaded questions with many, many wrong answers. I pant and I can’t get enough air and I get dizzy and my vision gets dark. And people say “Take deep breaths.” And if I had enough air for speech I would say, “That’s easy for you to say.” (When this happened with one particular teacher, she later asked my parents if I had asthma. However, at no time during our conversation did she ask if I needed medicine or offer to call the nurse)


• My mom had a rule that I had to have at least one activity outside the house. Just to see some other people and not get weird from being alone.


• She liked to kayak at a lake in town. She saw the rowing crews and asked me if I wanted to do that. I thought it sounded pretty cool, so I agreed.


• To get on the rowing team, you have to take a swim test.

And that’s where our story begins.

The swim test was really just treading water. They wanted to make sure you could keep yourself alive until help came if you fell out of the boat. You had to jump into the deep end of a pool wearing long sleeves and long pants, and tread water for a certain amount of time. I don’t remember how long. A few minutes.

I don’t remember how old I was. Too young to drive, because Mom drove me to the pool. Older than ten, because this was after Dad moved out. I think I might have been thirteen.

I didn’t have many long sleeved shirts, or pants that weren’t jeans. You couldn’t wear jeans for the swim test, because the fabric was too heavy and it would drag you down. So I put on a blue denim button-up I’d had for a while, and a pair of black pants I’d got at Value Village. It looked a little dumb, but I wasn’t going to wear it for long.

There was a lifeguard with a stopwatch. She was going to be timing me and signing off that I’d passed the swim test and was safe to row. The pool was full, with people swimming and playing. The lifeguard let me take off my shoes.

I got in the water and swam out away from the ledge. I had never treaded water before; I’d only seen it on PSAs. Move your arms in a figure eight. Cup your hands. Stay calm.

I couldn’t do it. I started sinking. I sputtered, trying to keep my head above water, but I couldn’t do it. The water was in my mouth, my nose, my eyes. I moved my arms faster, until they burned with the effort, but it was no good. I couldn’t breathe.

I started to panic. Panting. Which is not a great response to stress on land, but it’s a damn sight worse in the water. I was flailing, heaving, trying not to give up. It was only a few more minutes.

A little girl swimming beside me said, “You’re okay.” “You can do it.” She looked worried for me. I think she was about ten.

But I couldn’t do it. I was terrified. I thought I was going to drown. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t control the fear, the angry little animal inside me that wanted to stay alive. The irrational part of me telling me to Go. Leave. Now. Not safe. No air. Going to die.

I struggled to the ledge and got out of the pool. I was crying. The lifeguard had her stopwatch. I don’t remember if she said anything, but my mom was furious. She was so, so angry at me for giving up, wimping out, never following through on anything. Quitting. I cried more. I went into the locker room shaking. We drove home.

I’d brought a change of clothes, but my skin and hair were wet. My mouth was full of tears and chlorine and snot. My mom berated me the whole drive back. She was so disappointed and angry. She didn’t say a word about trying again another day, or picking a different activity. She didn’t ask if I was okay. She was ashamed of me because I gave up so easily.

I don’t remember what I said. I was not a quiet child; I must have screamed too. All the way back home, a short drive, my wet skin sticking to the polymer seats of her car. I was ashamed too. Disappointed. But I was angry at her. I wasn’t ruining her plans. I hadn’t hurt her. All this meant for her was that she wouldn’t have to drive me to the lake.

I was so furious and scared. Adrenaline still pumping from the panic attack in the water. I knew I didn’t deserve it. I knew that anyone with a drop of compassion would have at least asked if I was okay instead of yelling. I felt trapped with her in the car. Couldn’t get out. Couldn’t get away.

I wanted to rip her throat out.

When we got home, I ran through the door and down to the basement. I couldn’t get away fast enough. I was still sobbing, inconsolable, hysterical, making ugly faces and dripping snot.

My cat Ammonia was down there. She came up to me. Looked me over. Stayed with me to see if I was all right. She may have even let me pet her, I don’t remember.

Ammonia wasn’t a nice cat. She hated being touched or groomed. She lashed out violently. She was more feral than domestic. But she loved me, and she was very astute.

My mom came down the stairs to follow me. That was a thing in our fights, I could never get away. Not to end the fight, not even to compose myself and stop crying. She always followed.

And she sat down on a chair. And I was crouched over on my futon, curled up like I’d been punched in the gut. And she was talking, talking. She wanted to tell me all the reasons she was right.

And Ammonia flew at her. Snarling, raging, a whirling ball of claws and teeth ripping at her skin. She didn’t want her anywhere near me. She didn’t want to let her in our room.

She was ten pounds and the size of a football, but she was vicious and wild. You couldn’t stop her.

And when the cat finally got off, Mom said, “I guess I deserved that.”

And she did. She really, really did.

I’d never felt so loved in all my life as I did that day. I felt vindicated, protected. It was like a light had lit up in my heart, glowing gold and happy.

I hadn’t had a lot of people stand up for me. My parents didn’t protect me from each other. They didn’t protect me from my brother. And no one protected me from my parents. Not a teacher, not a doctor or nurse, not a family friend, no one. It all went on like it was perfectly normal and it had everyone’s okay.

But Ammonia protected me. To her, I was worth protecting.

I felt strong after that. Good. Like, don’t fuck with me. I have a wild animal. And she knows you’re wrong even if you don’t, and she will fuck you up good.

I loved that cat.