When I was little I loved to swim. I swam so much when I was a kid that I finished my lessons in grade 6. I remember being the only girl the only kid that could dive down to the bottom of the pool. So cool. Right? But coming up always harder than going down. When you are going down there is a specific point that you have to reach and it is clear where it is. Coming back up there is still point that you need to get to but you cannot always tell where it is. You see the top but never know when you are going to break the surface. There was always that slight moment of panic that would shoot through me thinking that I over estimated my self and I couldn’t hold my breath that long. Then you break the surface and your lungs kind of freak out because they get to function properly again. Your lungs are burning and your body is kind of limp because of the lack of oxygen the pressure from diving so deep is gone. Yet I did it again and again. I stopped swimming a long time ago but yet my life is still filled with hitting the bottom and pushing back up. The constant pressure on your chest yet I am standing on land in the middle of a crowd. My lungs are screaming for air as I am gasping for breath in the midst of a panic attack. Just like swimming no one can swim for you so you have to be going, Keep pushing trying to get to the point where you can breathe again. Then it ends and all you want to do is just sleep and sleep maybe never wake up but you have to wake up because you have to “keep swimming” keep going. NO matter how many times you end up at the bottom.