AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’ve been in therapy for years. And it’s not like the sessions are as rough as they used to be. Oftentimes they’re positive now, but still, I know I have heavy shit on my mind and a social function won’t blend well with that.
Back when I started seeing Scarlett, I told my therapist that I’d met someone. And we worked through the expected emotions of moving forward. He told me that moving on will bring a fresh wave of grief, like I’m really abandoning my old life and the memories, and that it was to be expected.
I did feel that. I did. Those feelings of guilt are what kept me tied to the past for so long.
After that passed, he’d told me, I may still feel undeserving. Because guilt is a conditioned emotion. It keeps me protected from emotional distress. And as soon as I was able to take apart that guilt and break it down brick by brick, I saw he was right. I saw all that emotional distress waiting, rushing toward me, wrapping around me, reminding me that she died and I didn’t save her.
I wanted the guilt back, but swam through the emotional distress as advised, surprised to see I didn’t immediately sink and drown.
Tonight’s session was interesting though. I came with a lot on my mind, and emptied the contents of my brain right out on the table as soon as the door clicked shut.
I told him that while things with Scarlett and I are progressing and while she is also making strides in her therapy, that I sense we’re coming to something pivotal. A choice will need to be made.
Can I be with her? Because she wants a full life. Can I do that? Am I ready to recommit?
I know that I am ready, in my heart I know I want her and a life with her.
A family.
I was a family man then, and at heart, still am, but locked that away in self-defense, because who the fuck wants to marry and have a child with a man who had that all once and let it slip away?
My therapist gave me the nudge. Told me that her wanting to be with me was her choice, not mine, and that I’d have to let her decide. He also directed me to the pool.
The place where I went to hurt everyday for years. Where I thought of them. Her.Torturedmyself thinking of her.
He said go there, and hold yourself under water, and think instead of Scarlett. See what happens, see how I feel.
So after therapy, I went back to my apartment—which feels weird and lonely without Scarlett—and grabbed my trunks. I hadn’t gone to the gym pool in weeks, because I never wanted to take morning time away from her. I didn’t want to leave her alone, if I’m being honest, because Pete is still calling. So I didn’t go.
I was avoiding facing the pool, because I knew the pool would help me figure out where I was at in the closure process. If I could move on. I was terrified if I got in the water and felt my chest seize and my brain go blurry and my heart crack that I wouldn’t be able to move forward with Scarlett. That I’d realize I was still stuck with them.
Avoiding the pool seemed like the solution. But that’s why I’m an art director and not a therapist, because apparently avoidance is not the solution.
I went to the gym, put my things in the locker room, and headed to the pool. In the room, despite the fact it’s evening instead of morning, is the same father and son I met all those weeks ago. The heavy metal door slams closed, drawing their attention to me. The man raises an arm and shouts an echoed hello as I lift my hand and wave in silence.
I drop my towel near the edge and stand with my toes on the bullnose, looking down into the lazily rippling water. The chlorine burns my nostrils, smelling stronger than it ever did before. Maybe they just treated the pool? I don’t know. I rake a hand up the back of my head right as the boy calls, “Cannon ball!” and plunges into the other side, sending slow ripples and waves my way.
I take the opportunity to jump in, and I let the weight of my body pull me to the bottom, bubbles all around me clouding my vision. I blink through the chlorinated pool, the chemical and heat stinging my eyes. I press a hand to my chest, searching for the throb. Trying to find the pinching pain.
It’s not there.
And as my breath runs out, my body and mind beg for the surface. Yearn for a lungful of air. No part of me wants to stay below.
Not anymore.
I do as the Dr. said and think of Scarlett for a moment, waving my arms to stay below the surface. As soon as I see her blonde hair around her face, wide eyes and charming smile, as soon as I imagine her in my lap, fingers in mine, feeding her bites of pasta and sleeping with her in a mess of tangled legs and twisted sheets, I brace my feet on the bottom and push off.
Breaking the surface, I find the little boy and his father are there, looking at me. His dad throws me a look of caution.
“My boy tells me you like to hold your breath.” His eyes ask me if I’m okay, the way they soften at the edges, the crows feet disappearing, his pupils searching mine.
I look at the boy, who looks moderately concerned. I wink at him, something I’ve never really done.
“He’s right,” I say, returning my focus to his father, who is running his palms along the surface of the pool. The three of us stand in the middle of the pool, this pool that I’ve swam in way too many times, more times than I’ve ever swam anywhere, even the lake back home in Michigan. But now, it feels like I don’t belong. “I used to. But I’ve seen how far I can take it. I’m done testing myself now,” I admit, knowing it’s quite the loaded statement, but relieved they are unaware. To them I’m just a loner odd ball at the public pool.
The boy leans in, as if there are children nearby he’s protecting from this grown up talk. I almost laugh, because he himself is a kid. But he’s so serious, I go along with it.
“That’s good. It was kinda weird how long you’d stay down there.”
