Ease in. I feel the creeping of the water over the inches of my back, sliding over goosebumps and past each rib. Shoulders dive under and the waterline moves into and through my hair, up my scalp; follicles tingle and prick. I press my shoulder blades to the bottom of the tub and the water comes around to frame my face and slip into my ears, filling them. I stay submerged. The water pouring down between my feet sounds like thunder in the distance, like drums all around. I take a deep breath in through my protruding nose, like an alligator, and feel my lungs fill and expand. I hear my quiet hiss of a breath amplified through the water and the bones in my ear, and focus on the way my body rises to the surface like a life raft -- my chest shooting up first, and then abdomen dragged up after, then the tops of my thighs. I hold the air in and wait to see if I might sink. I focus on being lighter than water, on the ease of it. I breathe out steadily and, a moment or two later, my body falls back in slow motion. Eventually I am back on the bottom of the tub, and my bones settle against the ceramic floor. Shoulder blades hit last and I rest, fragile and perfect against two points. The water around my face laps against my skin in tiny waves, sneaks into the cracks of my mouth, the creases of my eyes. This feels natural. I close my lips and let the water on either side come to meet in the middle between them. I close my eyes and feel it rush in to pool in the corners, against my nose which is the only thing not overcome. My breathing is slow and controlled. I don't create waves. With a deep breath in, I focus again on the way my body rises, chest leading and everything following. My eyes and lips emerge, chilly, and I exhale and drop back into the warmth. The sounds of my breathing seem to come from all around me, rather than within.

Happier since he's been gone. There's been -peace- since he left, and when I imagine him coming back, the turmoil comes right in step. I cannot imagine him being here and maintaining this feeling -- if I try, I can already feel the stomach aches and obsessive paranoia, the racing thoughts. Every time he asks why I'm with him, now, my response time is slower than the time before. This last time, seconds stretched out indefinitely while my brain searched for something to say that wouldn't fall flat, sound thinned out and tinny, or like a downright lie. So what is the real answer, then, in my headspace where no one can hear or judge or be hurt? What's left to stay for -- to stay submerged in discomfort and pain for? Would it really be -more- painful to leave, or just differently painful? Is it just my loyalty to the known evil? What do I really think is the risk -- and do I think enough about the benefit? Is it a consequential aversion to risk, so soon after falling face-down? I am unable to guarantee any kind of outcome, should I leave, making this feel more stable -- despite the fact that the only guarantee I have here is continued anguish. What do I really expect to await me on my own? Don't I know myself well enough to be sure that I won't ever hurt myself like his elements do? And what is even left of how I feel about him -- if I isolate him, put him into a box and look at him -- there is no more overwhelming response. I think more about leaving this state and forgetting everything it stands for than I think about making it a safer place for myself, or growing more into my existing life here. No longer in love, what am I protecting, cherishing? I cherish nothing, anymore. Potential, maybe? I both cherish the possibility of revival and tell myself it will never come around. That's what I'm staying for -- an outcome. Something to make me stay or go. Until then, I exist with my bags packed and a foot out the door. The only advantage I can pin down is that I do not want to venture out on my own before I am safely and properly medicated. This should've happened nearly a week ago, but just like everything else, my prescription insurance lapsed in the move and is proving difficult to reestablish. Once it is, though, -- I'll begin the process of feeling healthy enough to move on.