In too deep

I've been thinking a lot about fear and self-fulfilling prophecies. How what we fear most will inevitably come true, and what we focus on becomes stronger. I think this has definitely been true time and again in past relationships. Invariably there is always a time when you realize that you are in deeper than you can handle -- and it's usually at this point that things start to unravel.

I have unravelled plenty-o-times in the past to consider myself a somewhat expert on the subject. Being passionate, I dive right in only to drown as I desperately try to scramble back to shore.

It's a sad sight really, me choking on mouthfuls of salt water as the shore bobs off in the distance and I sink deeper and deeper into the ocean. Sure, at times there is relief: I'll hang on to some sort of buoy as I gasp for breath -- but then it rains, or I get a cramp, or a shark bites off my leg. Essentially, I should have never dove in the water, because the fact is; I'm not a very good swimmer.

Drowning people are difficult. If anyone has ever tried to rescue a drowning person they'll know that, consumed by fear, they cling desperately on to their rescuer and many times almost drown them as well.

So there I am, time and again, like an idiot -- drowning in the ocean and desperately clinging on to any driftwood or piece of trash that passes by me. The momentary relief of these make-shift rafts fools me into believing that I can handle going out that deep -- but really, I can't. I never could.

You see, what I should have done was build up my endurance by swimming laps in the shallow end until I was so strong that if I did get pulled out too far -- I could always swim back to safety.

But it took me many years (and many drownings) to realize what I was doing wrong.

There comes a point when no one wants to help a drowning person - for fear of drowning themselves. So as my arms flail and I scream at the top of my lungs; I scare off any potential of ever getting rescued from my inevitable demise. Lifeguards flee the shore.

And there I am -- alone, withered, and drifting further and further out to sea. My fear, albeit valid, had made the situation worse.

So as I prepared for certain death (yet again) I did something different this last time -- I accepted the scary situation I was in. I accepted that the ocean is a scary place filled with sharks and undertows and jellyfish. I accepted that I had swam out too far and that flailing had got me no where. I accepted that this situation was not good -- and that my fear of it was not helping me at all.

And then something magical happened. As I became calm, the ocean became calm. I lay there flat on my back -- taking shallow breaths and accepting the moment. I didn't control it -- because I couldn't. And as I focused on what I could do to make my demise a little more comfortable, the universe brought me a lifeline: a seal popped it's head out of the water. And so, recognizing that I was going to be ok, I wrapped my arms around it and allowed it to guide me back to shore.