Aggroculture
Track #15
I was totally the nervous kid. Now I am a nervous adult.
Anxiety never goes away. I just manage to disguise it a bit better and not let it get to me.
The idea of getting my toes wet in the water, literally and figuratively, is thrilling and horrifying. Will I fall in? Will someone push me in? I scan everything and go over every scenario:
How big are the fish in there?
Is there the dreaded, unexpected “drop off” that will send me to the depths of this lake? To never be seen of again?
Is there broken glass in the bottom? Some ancient, rusted, gnarly tin can?
When was my last tetanus shot?
Do I look OK in this bathing suit?
Can I make it back to shore?
The initial entry into the lake is always the same for me. Not just the first swim of the year. Not just because it’s a new body of water. It’s every time.
Same scenario. I thought it would change. I thought I would change. After all these years, I know me. This is me. I am my own scenario.
Everyone is swimming farther out to the buoys. Do they expect me to go that far? I hate big water. Always have. In some senses it doesn’t make sense. I grew up boating. I’m from The Great Lake State. A fear is a fear. An irrational fear is just damn scary. My dad didn’t understand. Wait. Maybe he did and just faked it. I do that with my own kids. For instance, I can now take care of the spiders in the house.
Most of the time.
Back to the water, I’m tuning out the jabs/coaxing/commands. They sound muffled. A million miles away. “Come in, the water’s fine!” Yes, people do say that. “You’re such a baby”. “Come ONNN!” “You should have never watched Jaws.” “It’s like ripping off a band-aid. Just get it overwith!”. All those useless, annoying phrases get lost with the splashes of water everyone is sending in my direction.
I start easing my body into the cold. More goosebumps arrive. My arms raised above my head as though keeping them dry will keep me rooted to dry, stable ground. Keep in mind that I’m doing this as the water is only up to my knees.
The sand between my toes shifts around. Small smooth rocks under my feet. The water is still clear. I can see tiny minnows dart around. Wildlife. Surviving. Winning.
I wade deeper. Bathing suit not yet wet. Harder to see the bottom. My hands begin to lower. I skim the top of the water with my fingers. Easier.
“Come ON!” They are still yelling. I’m still transitioning from fear to the embrace of the unknown.
Moving deeper. Bottoms are wet. My belly button is under. I’m doing this.
Seaweed starts hugging my ankles and calves. As a child this sensation would send me running for the shore, only to have to start the process all over again. As an adult, I keep moving. Slowly. But moving.
The cold water is up to my ribs. The sensation rapidly pushes the air out of my lungs. Anxiety begins to escape with it. The air taken back in is the air of this needed renewed courage.
My forearms are now submerged. I begin marching. I push against the force of the water. Muscles are tight from the cold. I slow when my feet touch a softer sandy area. I feel the ripples left by the movement of the water. I dig my toes in. They feel the colder sand beneath the top layer. Knees slowly bending, I sink until the water is covering my shoulders.
Kids are squealing. Seagulls are screeching. Someone is playing some undecipherable summer song from a radio. There’s a game of catch football happening in the water. I can still smell sunscreen. I hear jet skis and laughing. This is Michigan summer.
I close my eyes. Dark. Deeply inhale the maximum amount of bravery. I slip entirely into the water. All sound stops except for the swoosh of water against my ears. Reminding me of where I am. Time stops. I slowly sink, life has halted in this sweet cocoon of fear and conquest. I tuck my knees up to my chest and paddle my arms to force my body to remain close to the surface yet still under. I’m controlling this. The last traces of fear are escaping in little tiny bubbles out of my nose. I open my eyes. The shock of the cold and the burn of the lake water make me try to blink it away. I do this every time. I regret it immediately but there is something that I want to try to see. The sight, sound and feel is that of a dark green calm. It is a sensory destination and reward to this confrontation.
I slowly bring my head back up. Take in the air I will claim as my victory breath. The sounds of the lake return. I return. Braver. Calmer. A sense of being reborn. The beach is oblivious to my baptism. Good.
Upon every visit to the water, this process will start over. Continually proving to myself that these ever-present fears will not stop me. The deep green calm of the passing of fear will envelop me.
The strength of my own scenario forever renewing itself.
Vowel Pellet
Track #15
I was totally the nervous kid. Now I am a nervous adult.
Anxiety never goes away. I just manage to disguise it a bit better and not let it get to me.
The idea of getting my toes wet in the water, literally and figuratively, is thrilling and horrifying. Will I fall in? Will someone push me in? I scan everything and go over every scenario:
How big are the fish in there?
Is there the dreaded, unexpected “drop off” that will send me to the depths of this lake? To never be seen of again?
Is there broken glass in the bottom? Some ancient, rusted, gnarly tin can?
When was my last tetanus shot?
Do I look OK in this bathing suit?
Can I make it back to shore?
The initial entry into the lake is always the same for me. Not just the first swim of the year. Not just because it’s a new body of water. It’s every time.
Same scenario. I thought it would change. I thought I would change. After all these years, I know me. This is me. I am my own scenario.
Everyone is swimming farther out to the buoys. Do they expect me to go that far? I hate big water. Always have. In some senses it doesn’t make sense. I grew up boating. I’m from The Great Lake State. A fear is a fear. An irrational fear is just damn scary. My dad didn’t understand. Wait. Maybe he did and just faked it. I do that with my own kids. For instance, I can now take care of the spiders in the house.
Most of the time.
Back to the water, I’m tuning out the jabs/coaxing/commands. They sound muffled. A million miles away. “Come in, the water’s fine!” Yes, people do say that. “You’re such a baby”. “Come ONNN!” “You should have never watched Jaws.” “It’s like ripping off a band-aid. Just get it overwith!”. All those useless, annoying phrases get lost with the splashes of water everyone is sending in my direction.
I start easing my body into the cold. More goosebumps arrive. My arms raised above my head as though keeping them dry will keep me rooted to dry, stable ground. Keep in mind that I’m doing this as the water is only up to my knees.
The sand between my toes shifts around. Small smooth rocks under my feet. The water is still clear. I can see tiny minnows dart around. Wildlife. Surviving. Winning.
I wade deeper. Bathing suit not yet wet. Harder to see the bottom. My hands begin to lower. I skim the top of the water with my fingers. Easier.
“Come ON!” They are still yelling. I’m still transitioning from fear to the embrace of the unknown.
Moving deeper. Bottoms are wet. My belly button is under. I’m doing this.
Seaweed starts hugging my ankles and calves. As a child this sensation would send me running for the shore, only to have to start the process all over again. As an adult, I keep moving. Slowly. But moving.
The cold water is up to my ribs. The sensation rapidly pushes the air out of my lungs. Anxiety begins to escape with it. The air taken back in is the air of this needed renewed courage.
My forearms are now submerged. I begin marching. I push against the force of the water. Muscles are tight from the cold. I slow when my feet touch a softer sandy area. I feel the ripples left by the movement of the water. I dig my toes in. They feel the colder sand beneath the top layer. Knees slowly bending, I sink until the water is covering my shoulders.
Kids are squealing. Seagulls are screeching. Someone is playing some undecipherable summer song from a radio. There’s a game of catch football happening in the water. I can still smell sunscreen. I hear jet skis and laughing. This is Michigan summer.
I close my eyes. Dark. Deeply inhale the maximum amount of bravery. I slip entirely into the water. All sound stops except for the swoosh of water against my ears. Reminding me of where I am. Time stops. I slowly sink, life has halted in this sweet cocoon of fear and conquest. I tuck my knees up to my chest and paddle my arms to force my body to remain close to the surface yet still under. I’m controlling this. The last traces of fear are escaping in little tiny bubbles out of my nose. I open my eyes. The shock of the cold and the burn of the lake water make me try to blink it away. I do this every time. I regret it immediately but there is something that I want to try to see. The sight, sound and feel is that of a dark green calm. It is a sensory destination and reward to this confrontation.
I slowly bring my head back up. Take in the air I will claim as my victory breath. The sounds of the lake return. I return. Braver. Calmer. A sense of being reborn. The beach is oblivious to my baptism. Good.
Upon every visit to the water, this process will start over. Continually proving to myself that these ever-present fears will not stop me. The deep green calm of the passing of fear will envelop me.
The strength of my own scenario forever renewing itself.
Vowel Pellet