We always lived by the ocean. Therefore, having a fear of it was completely ridiculous. I took a deep breath, the smell of the salt from the water traveling through the air with the breeze. I let the breath out, not realizing that I was holding it.
A storm is coming.
I close my eye, tight, and inhaled through my nose again. The scent of fresh rain against the rising tide met my nostrils the second I took the breath into my lungs. When I opened my eyes, the sun's reflection blinded me as I looked at the water below. I looked up, blinking. The sun hung high in the clear blue sky.
A storm is approaching.
I sighed and rubbed my eyes as my heart pounded against my chest. I did my best to squash my rising panic. We talked about this in therapy; when the images come, walk away and breathe through it. They aren't really happening; it's not real.
I had long stopped trying to keep the images at bay. Walking away did almost nothing but bring me back to the same place. Every time I had an attack, I ended up back at the same pier, all the way at the end, breathing in the sea air as if it was going to cure my panic. Breathing made the panic worse. Physically, I knew this wasn't actually happening, in this exact moment. The hard part was convincing my brain otherwise.
We have to run.
Breathe in, breathe out. There was no running. The wind sweeps my hair behind me, smacking me in the face with the spray of the ocean. I swallow, imagining what it would be like to just jump straight off the pier.
No, I already tried that once.
We must get her to safety.
There is no such thing as safe, not when I'm standing right above the thing that tried to kill me. I clenched my eyes shut, trying to remind myself that this wasn't real. This was just a bad dream that refused to let me rest; one that broached the barrier between awake and asleep to harass me endlessly.
Breathe. In and out.
Whatever talking is happening, either in my head or around me, ceased. Behind my closed eyes, I saw the swirl of crashing waves, all of which collided around me.
This isn't real.
My heart pounds as I stand on the pier. My hands grasp at the railing, like it was my only lifeline, like it was going to save me from this attack. I could practically feel myself drowning; I could feel the push and pull of the tide and is carried me deeper and deeper. I fought inside myself, trying to get the waves of nausea to leave me alone, but it was no use. I was going to die.
Breathe!
THIS ISN'T REAL.
I squeeze my eyes harder, hold on tighter, and feel tears spring out of me. All of this while begging the visions to leave me. It did nothing to reduce the sense of impending doom I felt inside my chest. It did nothing but make me feel like the air around me had turned into a dense liquid. I coughed, feeling my stomach getting ready to leap out of my throat.
ThIs IsN't ReAl.
My parents say that, when I was a child, I jumped into the ocean without anyone around to catch me. I didn't know how to swim, the ocean was merciless, and I almost drowned. I don't know who saved me, I blacked out from lack of oxygen at some point, but I woke up in a hospital room, very much alive.
This isn't real.
Finally, I open my eyes, the panic starts to release me from its hold. I took slow and shaky breaths, and took in my surroundings. The water is calm, the sky was skill blue, the sun is starting its decent, and I am not dead. I am still alive.
I gaze out into the open ocean. As calm as it is presenting itself, I knew of its true brutality. I am one of the lucky ones; I escaped.
