I’m five years old. My mother’s parent’s lake house in Seattle is the pinnacle of paradise- bright sunshine drifting through the translucent tops of golden-green birch leaves, the still mirror of stagnant pools dotted with cliques of water lilies drifting lazily in their perfumed air, the formidable and awe-inspiring quality of untouched snowy mountain caps, acting like silent guards with their icy arms spread around our lush valley of happiness. Everything is silent and cool and calm. The fresh water chills my soft and un-calloused feet as they test the temperature, and my toes curl in the mud of the shallow end, pressing deeper and deeper into ephemeral footing. Mommy would be angry if she saw how the cold creeps up my porcelain legs, enveloping the calf, overwhelming the knee, conquering the thigh. Soon it’s around my neck, a friendly grip, a liberating collar. Small pink-painted fingers reach out, cut through the stillness, and erupt in an earthquake of ripples. Mommy, look. See how the lake listens?

I must look exactly like Ariel. Do you see how pretty my hair seems, all splayed out in the water, Mommy? It’s just a little bit cold and only a tad slippery. Toes dig deeper holes in the floor; the mirror laps gently, seductively at my lips. Feet are kicking now, desperately trying to keep my head afloat. Please, no; oh, please stop I can’t breathe. There is only blue- just the endless sky stretching forever and the broken gasps of a panicked little girl and the monster with cold, hungry fingers on my legs, consuming me. Mommy, help me; Mommy, are you there? It’s taking me. The water is raping me; how could you never teach me how to swim? My brother wins medals for lapping pools with the fastest time; this could never happen to him.

What’s that feeling? It’s gotten inside of me- the water is in my lungs, and I can’t see blue any longer. Haze creeps around my eyes, burned with water. My legs and arms are getting tired, so tired, but my chest hurts. When did I swallow needles?

But then, is that sunlight? It’s flowing down beneath the surface like it flows through the leaves of my happy place, envelops me in warmth, and keeps me safe. My pink fingers reach out, stretch to feel the satin touch of silky sunlight that will banish this cold persistence taking my body hostage. My fingers wrap around something- not cold like the slippery water, and not warm like the welcoming sun. I grip and pull, and my legs aren’t too tired anymore; the needles are pushing me forward, up. I climb onto the dock and breathe. I’ve adapted.