Deep End

by Ali Hazelwood

BYO trauma. Tissues are on me.

Focused on the PT and the stretches and the rehab, as zealously as a nun saying her nighttime prayers.

okay, I’m a stack of hypersensitivities in a trench coat—but

For people like me, like him—like us—trust is the real currency.

Am I the only one who cries in the shower, and can never find enough air to properly breathe, and opens the fridge hoping to discover a magic portal leading to a Narnia-like society in which competitive sports have been banned?

“If you don’t think that I’m very aware of your presence, always, you have no idea what’s going on.”

It’s just a regular Sunday. Nothing special happens. There are no milestones or achievements, nor do I go to sleep secure in the knowledge that I’ve achieved perfection. And yet it’s a really, really good day.

“I’m afraid of the unpredictability of existing. I’m afraid of not being able to control the direction of my life. I’m afraid that no matter how much I plan, I won’t be able to avoid hurtful and sad things. But above all…” I take a deep breath and laugh softly, because what I’m about to say is ridiculous, even if it’s true. Even if it’s me. “Mostly, I’m afraid of attempting something and not being perfect at it.”

“You know it, don’t you?” he asks. “What?” “From the very start, you had all the power. From the very start, I was in the palm of your hand.”