I can't see my legs.

    You said you can't swim into the ocean. Not because you can't swim, but because the deeper you go, you can't see your legs any more and that scares you. Not knowing where your legs are? I never had irrational fears like that. Never thought about it. My legs are attached to me. Kicking. I can feel them, so what if I can't see them? 

    I would swim deep into the grey sea, alone. I'd call out your name and tell you to come hold me. You'd never come, I'd keep swimming, squinting, eyes burning. I'd come back sometimes and try to pull you with me. No, Zan, you'd say. I never liked it when you were firm with me. I'd call you a coward, pinch you and go back, swimming till slowly, I started to scare myself, till I couldn't see you when I looked back. I'd panic, just the way you taught me to. Oh God, I can't see my legs. Why is the water so black? I'd swim fast, imagining all sorts of things holding me back. I'd swim to you.

     When we'd meet on the shore and play in the waves, I'd never tell you how I panicked. You thought me to be so brave. We'd fall over the water, over each other. Sand everywhere, in everything. I'd start to burn, you'd hide me under your arm and tell me to go inside. 

     Now, when I'm swimming, not even in the ocean, I panic. The water is clear, I can see my legs. I can see the tiled floor, even in the deep end. I'm scared and I want to swim to you, but you're long gone. And you've left me with these irrational fears about not being able to see what I can feel...