April 27th, 2025
CW/TW: Near Drowning of a Child, puking up water after drowning (the child is me- I’m clearly fine), angry men, grief, depression, teenage girl antics, hypothetical death (comedic undertones)
“Breathe,” I command myself.
I hold my hands lightly on top of my stomach, then remember that lungs also extend higher, so I raise one hand to my upper chest, and attempt to breathe again.
“In,” I urge myself, “and out!”
But I can’t quite do it- my lungs won’t move far enough, like they’ve suddenly atrophied. I’ve obviously been using my own lungs all the time because I’m still alive (and barely breathing), but they inexplicably won’t fill up with a full breath. I feel exhausted by the exertion of just trying to fully breathe.
I feel myself gasping around my inability to take one full breath in and out. My heart is pounding out of my chest in biological panic. I can’t stop it, and now I’m hyperventilating, so I try to slow down my breathing, hold on to a breath as it goes in for a few heartbeats longer, but I start gasping more desperately than before.
“Holy fucking shit- I might actually die,” I think to myself with an atrophied level of concern. I shift my head farther down my pillow and stare at the ceiling numbly while I feel my body start to slightly thrash around for air. I try to hold myself still, because this feels like it’s too dramatic of a reaction for my body to be having to something that feels as inconsequential to me right now as breathing air. I feel strange, like I’m simply observing my own body and limited emotional reactions- everything is somehow disconnected from each other, and from me.
It’s more of a casually surprised, resigned realization than anything else. Honestly, how much of a difference would it actually even make to simply keel over and die at this point? Would I even notice if my own lungs suddenly gave out? Have they given out already??
“What the hell is even happening to me,” I mutter to myself breathlessly, then gasp around another agonizing, automatic attempt at my lungs being lungs that results in yet another painful incomplete breath in. My abdomen burns and aches with strain. I’m not as medically competent as I wish I was- I don’t know the name for this or if there even is one, but this whole business feels beyond ridiculous, and wildly aggravates me. I’d rather lie here and existential crisis philosophically in tormented peace than existential crisis over why I can literally feel my own body’s abrupt inability to breathe- or maybe it’s just that I just barely noticed; I don’t know anymore.
I fidget uncomfortably, consumed by a sudden urge to literally crawl out of my own skin. That’s not an option, and would probably freak out my lovely neighbor’s polite children if I were to venture outside, so instead I close my eyes with my palms pressed against my forehead, and try to take some deep breaths that don’t feel like deep breaths, and try to observe myself objectively to try to figure out what’s physically wrong with me.
My forehead is warmer than normal- my body’s a stickler for 97.9, so maybe my temperature is higher from the sudden strain of breathing, and maybe I’m also just sick or tired or both. Maybe I just need to relax enough to be able to fall asleep. It’s a ludicrous thought, because I’ve had anxiety since I popped outta the womb and demanded they put me back via bloodcurdling wail, and I’ve already done my entire Vogue video perfect Get Unready With Me bedtime routine, and read, and loudly blasted some indie song I’m currently obsessed with to calm myself down before bed, and prayed to the Gods for Taylor Swift to please release the double-album Debutation TV that I genuinely still believe in, even as They shook Their heads at my open delusion. I had even closed my eyes and went to my happiest happy place, which now makes me sad, so instead I thought about Bestie’s hilarious joke earlier today, and basked in the glow of our mutual adoration for each other. I think I might be asleep, and then I shift my head and see my pillowcase, and I realize that I’m not. Maybe I just need to relax ✨MORE✨!!!
I sigh heavily and wince at the pain it causes me internally. Maybe I just need to close my eyes, try to relax in some magically undiscovered way, let my mind wander off to wherever it decides to go, and then fade into the sweet oblivion of my dreams. I mean, usually, this works- in theory, there’s no reason why it wouldn’t work now. I close my eyes, exhale, flinch as I inhale, fidget for a second, and then will myself to relax. I’m just observing whatever thoughts come to me as I painfully continue to try to breathe. I realize it feels like something is physically blocking the final portion of my lungs, like I can’t breathe properly because something is literally blocking my ability to breathe- something inside of my lungs. I try to identify other times I haven’t been able to breathe before- maybe they can help me figure out what’s going on. I let my memories flood into me.
✨✨✨
I’m 5 or 6, drowning in a pool (good news spoiler: I guess I made it). I see my father swimming towards me. He pulls me out, sets me on the pool entrance stairs, and after I’m done coughing up water, he tells me to cling to the railing “so you don’t float away [I was a very tiny child].” At first I hold it normally like a much taller person holding the railing as they stand on a bus during peak commuting hours. Then I suddenly decide to hang off of the pool step railing horizontally, like a monkey in a children’s illustration, gasping for air until I let go of it theatrically and fall down into the water with a satisfyingly dramatic splash. My father frowns down at me when I resurface in a gasp and a bob, and tells me not to do that again as I sit back down on the steps leading into the pool. I tell him that I just wanted to try it once, hanging off the railing and falling like that, then lean my head back against the partially-submerged step behind me tiredly. I tell him I’m done and won’t do it again, because I just wanted to try it once. I’m fine somehow, just out of breath.
My father shakes his head and nonsensically demands to know what I was doing when he pulled me out of the pool a few minutes earlier. I stare at him for a moment with my head tilted, mentally marveling at the incompetence of grown ups- why am I supposed to listen to people who clearly don’t even know what’s going on?? He angrily raises his voice at me when I don’t immediately respond, his scrawny child who just almost died, and orders me to tell him what I was doing. He says I’m gonna be in big trouble if I don’t answer him. I know what that means. I’m too tired for this shit. I sit up as more water starts coming out of my little face.
“Drowning,” I tell him dryly between sudden mad gasps for air. The regurgitated water recedes as quickly as it suddenly returned. “I was DYING,” I clarify before falling silent again. I half-smile up at my dad, feeling very proud of myself for telling such excellent jokes. He frowns down at me and my comedic genius, then abruptly orders me to get out of the pool. “Get out and go to your Mother,” he tells me sternly in Punjabi. I roll my eyes at him in American Teenager: Kindergarten Edition and slowly climb out of the pool by myself with no help.
My Mother is taking care of my younger sibling(s) and perplexed by my sudden antics, because I’m generally a well-behaved child who just asks a lot of questions, balks at authority figures until someone explains the rationale for their existence, and talks endlessly {apparently I’ve literally never grown up 💀😌🥰}. She tells me to sit down, puts a couple of blankets and borrowed coats on my shivering little body, and hands me a chocolate chip cookie.
“Oh,” I say. “This is my least favorite white people food.” “Well they taste better warm,” my Mom says sympathetically. She points out that other kids really like these, and calls me a weirdo. She suggests that I hold it in my lap so that it warms up from my body heat, but the cookie inexplicably gets even colder.
I very politely ask for a Hot Pocket. My Mom asks me if I’ve ever even had one. At this point, I have not. As an adult, I develop my own heavily shortcutted recipe for them after the motherfuckers who make them inexplicably add coconut oil to their recipe (I am allergic) (this happens to me a lot). When I tell her I haven't had one before, she sighs heavily and suggests placing my hands on top of the cookie to try to warm it up faster.
✨✨✨
I’m having a panic attack that’s rapidly getting worse, a previous partner right there with me, just as he always was. He’s been there for me several times before while this happens, but this one is particularly bad and rapidly spiraling out of control.
“Help me,” I gasp through tears, with my hands balled up in halfhearted fists of panic against his chest, quickly losing the ability to breathe and speak. I’m desperate for my panic attack to somehow magically stop, even as it consumes me entirely. He glances down in the direction of my hands, then stares directly at me questioningly, raising an eyebrow at me. I nod and continue to cry. He gingerly loosens my fists with cautious ease, holds both of my small hands inside of a single massive hand of his, then holds them up to his lips and softly kisses them. He gently lets go and places one of my hands over his heart, and one of his hands over mine. I can feel his heart beating steadily underneath my hand while my own heartbeat is racing under his hand.
I loosely half-cling to his neck with my free arm, and suddenly start crying more. I want to die of embarrassment, because I never cry, so why am I crying so much and so intensely now? The second that I raise my head, he kisses away my tears, then gently pulls me closer to him with his other arm. He bends and softly rests his forehead against mine. I let go of his neck and center my hand over his chest, feeling his calm, steady breaths while I’m completely losing it. I start to sob in despair that he’s always so calm, and I almost never am- unless he’s there, or I’m asleep. His heart is slightly speeding up as I begin to cry more. I try to tell him that I can’t breathe, but I can’t quite manage to get the words out.
“I can’t-" I begin, then abruptly cut off and bawl even more intensely than before. He kisses my forehead tenderly for a long moment and pulls us closer together. I cling to him again and sob hysterically all over my poor man’s chest. I let go of him and lower my arms to his chest, then start to pull back to look at his eyes and apologize. He draws us slightly apart the same second he feels me start to shift in his arms, a worried reluctance twisting his face.
I gaze up at him. “I’m so sorry,” I say between sobs. “I’m so sorry- that I’m like this,” I choke out. He hugs me tightly against his chest and lets me sob for a moment, then eases slightly. He sighs deeply in sympathy and bear hugs me. “Oh {S},” he says sadly. I continue to cry and attempt to pat his arm or something in response, because I can’t exactly hug him back like this. My hand just kind of awkwardly taps upward from underneath his arm. He leans down to my ear and ever so slightly eases his hold on me. “Do you want me to let go of you, so you can be free to move around?” He asks me gently. “NO.” I burrow further into him as he holds me tighter against him in response. He pauses for a moment while I sniffle. “Can we try something else?” “Yeah,” I say in a small, strangled voice, raising my tilted head to smile weakly up at him.
He brings our foreheads back together, re-centers my hand over his heart, and places my other hand back on the middle of his chest, right over his lungs. He places his own hand directly over my heart again, his other arm still securely locked around my back. “Do you feel my lungs moving in and out?” He asks me. I barely nod with my eyes closed, then open them to see that his eyes are shut in concentration. “Honey- I really need you to answer me, please.” He says intensely, voice and expression carefully controlled, but marred with worry and slight panic. I close my eyes again and press closer against his forehead. He must’ve been too worried to feel me barely nodding against his forehead. “Yes,” I say quietly, then quickly kiss his cheek and turn back to press our foreheads back together again. He exhales in audible relief, then takes a couple of long, deep breaths in to steady himself before he speaks to me again. When he opens his eyes, there's still tears streaming down my face while I cry quietly.
He kisses my cheek suddenly and gently wipes my tears away with his thumb, then sweeps carefully across my chin and neck for good measure, because he knows that I completely loathe the sensation of tears running down my neck. “I’m sorry for ruining your perfume,” he says apologetically. “It’s okay,” I say through tears. He kisses my temple and murmurs, “I’ll help you put it back on again later if you want me to.” I nod furiously and tilt down to peck him gently on his lips exactly once. My breath catches audibly as I move back, and our eyes lock, and then we embrace for a moment. I try very hard to stop crying completely, but it doesn’t exactly work. My tears almost stop, but not quite. I try to take in a deep breath and stare up at the ceiling. I feel him freeze for a moment, quickly kiss him again tenderly, then slightly pull away and continue to sob gently. He wipes my face tenderly and kisses my tears away again. We draw our foreheads back together and place our hands over each other’s hearts again.
“Breathe like me, baby,” he says. We stay like that, with him gently guiding me to breathe more evenly and slowly, until my panic attack is finally over. He's all steady heartbeats and even breaths when it matters most in a way that I'm not sure I could ever be.
“Thank you,” I say tearfully. He hugs me tightly and kisses the side of my face tenderly while I cling to him in response. We stay together like that for a long time, until I hesitantly admit that I have to go, and he softly says that he wants me to stay. Neither of us actually wants me to go, so we just stay there together, holding each other as he leans back, supporting the combined weight of us both. He always says that I hardly weigh anything at all whenever I bring it up, then stares directly at me in unspoken concern about my perpetual little storm cloud of Anorexia, but I feel certain that I must feel like something, especially during our shared private moments when I’m hysterically bawling and clinging to him. He cautiously says it just feels like I’m there, and I need him, so he tries to make sure that he’s there for me when I need him to be. Always such a gentleman, that man.
After a while, I start to twist around in his arms while he loosens his hold on me in response. I turn to face him with a hand over my chest, and tell him that it’s still hurting me to breathe. I groan in shocked pain as I inhale. His head shoots up from his car's headrest in abrupt alarm, and he stares down at me in shocked panic. Neither of us knows exactly what to do, so we try to figure out what’s wrong with me together by taking turns throwing out suggestions and talking through them all, but we never quite do land on a definitive answer.
✨✨✨
I am in my family’s remodeled bathroom alone with the door securely locked and the fan on, sobbing in silence with my chin and cheek braced against the soft smoothness of my bare shoulder.
I try to breathe in deeply enough to calm myself down, but it feels like something is literally blocking my full lung capacity, like there’s some physical barrier inside of me preventing me from breathing properly. I don’t know what this is, but it hurts. It literally hurts to breathe. In and out and pausing is all painful. This isn’t normal, is it??
I break the silence of the locked room with a soft sniffle. By the time I have stopped crying long enough that I’m about to finally wipe away my tears, I realize that they’ve already dried.
✨✨✨
I am lying face up on the floor in my high school A’Cappella class, upsetti spaghetti because my clean hair is now inexplicably dirty again. Everybody is lying on the floor as part of a choir exercise. I huff exasperatedly.
My high school bestest bestie suddenly squeezes my hand supportively next to me. I turn onto my side and impulsively hug her for a moment while she awkwardly pats my back supportively. It’s an especially tender moment because I generally don’t hug people. We’ve been friends for five-plus years, but still rarely hug. I let go and glance up at her to see her beaming above me from a foot away. “There there, my son,” she says seriously with a straight face, my friend who is seven months younger than me.
A couple of the other girls near us laugh at the ridiculousness of the inside joke I started, calling older girl Besties “son” and younger ones “grandpa.” Although my friend who called me “there there, my son” as we lay on the floor in choir and I had called each other “son” as our own bestie endearment, long before we had roped our other friends into our fake little family of jokey nicknames. They decide I’m “way too feminine and maternal to be anything but a Mom,” so I am “Mother” and “Mom” to our other friends. Boys are blanket banned by me, the author and instigator of these jokes, from the joyful chaos of our girl group games. It’s because they’re so boring and would never understand, anyways. Also, boys are just NOT funny, full offense. They don’t understand the iconic concept behind me walking into class in hot pink tights and a satin pencil skirt, beaming and thanking Bestie in a very fake Southern accent, because one of my friends just shouted out, “you’re the prettiest son I’ve ever had.”
One of our other Besties is my husband, and she calls me “honey” and asks what she can add to her “Honey Do List.” Mostly the list is just that she brings me snacks, because we’ve been friends for years, and she knows that I barely eat, but I don’t say no to Bestie gifts, and I historically snack more often than I sit down and eat actual entire meals. [December 2025 note: this is no longer true.] She’s also several months younger than me. She jokes that we are “Mommy & Daddy” and is fond of sternly saying “settle down, kids” when I’m being the loudest one when we’re together with all of our bestie “children.” She calls me “Wifey for Lifey” way more than I ever call her Husband. There’s a melodramatic proposal with multiple ring pops that happens right before we part when I move away to go to college, like Hannah Montana. My husband also tells me my horoscope everyday, and the weekend in advance.
We died of laughter together over Husband randomly calling me “sweet young thing” and then immediately “pretty young thing” one day. She explained that it was from some song I’d never heard of before, because my parents haven’t been American since birth like me, and my older siblings aren’t super into every classic American artist, so there’s a million things I’ve never heard- but do I know all of Muse’s back catalogue and introduce Husband to "Thoughts of a Dying Atheist", which she thinks is especially hilarious because I’m blunt and excited when I tell her about it, my devoutly Mormon little self Stanning a rock song about an atheist’s existential crisis and dread as he dies.
From then on, my husband takes the song she was quoting and plays it for me as theme music when I’m about to I walk into choir and pose for her on the days we have class: "Pretty Young Thing" by Michael Jackson. She cat calls me while I pose, takes fake photos and sometimes real ones, and attempts to teach me to wink. Honey is unfortunately not physically present to be forced to lie down on the floor with us, but we feel and honor the tenderness of her spirit there with us that day in our hearts.
“Your lungs are like a balloon,” The Choir Director begins. “You’re not just breathing in and out, but up and down. You need to feel yourself really, truly opening up your lungs all the way. They open up the same way that a balloon swells when you fill it. Think about a sensation of fullness, or of filling, or expansion. It’s easier sometimes to feel and understand when you’re lying down.” We all practice feeling our lungs fully inhale and exhale.
I heave exhaustedly and tap on my son’s arm gently, but insistently. She instantly glances down at me curiously with thinly veiled concern. Usually, I literally just clear my throat in words more than sounds when I have something to say, or am generally dying of boredom and/or a lack of attention. I hold my hands up across my chest like a mummy. “My whole chest hurts from this,” I complain, gesturing around the room theatrically. “Where is my husband, to breathe for me??”
Our son gazes down at me sympathetically. “She’s supposed to be back tomorrow. Just try to fake it if it hurts too much to actually do it.” “My specialty- pretending to be human and BREATHE,” I smirk. Somebody else suddenly makes a little sound like Doodlebob speaking near us. Son and I burst into hysterical laughter together. “[S], did you do that??” She asks between hysterical giggles. “I can’t even imitate voices and accents in my wildest dreams- you know this,” I say. “Remember the French song we were learning before, where I sounded too American, and I literally said ‘dance’ in the wrong language over and over again?? WOW- that was embarrassing,” I say, shaking my head as my son laughs even harder. “I’m never gonna be cool, and I must make peace with my lot in life,” I say solemnly. I look over at my son, who is literally rolling with laughter and struggling to stop.
The Choir Director shoots a momentary glare directly at us. I sweetly smile back at her angelically, as if all of this wasn’t my fault, but also to quietly acknowledge that it kind of is. Around us, everybody else is doing what they’re supposed to- breathing, giving each other pointers, practicing our recent songs. My son is wiping away tears from the nonsensical chaos happening in class today and taking deep breaths, and I close my eyes and start to “om.”
“Good,” The Choir Director says. I open my eyes in time to see her smiling around the room fondly at us. “Now I don’t wanna hear all of you kids all running out of breath at the same time when you’re supposed to still be singing- so let’s try this again. We’re starting from the beginning, just so everyone knows where we’re at. And here’s your first note-” Somebody hits piano chords, and everybody harmonizes together in angelic perfection, which I also do with my arm held aloft above me, gesturing heavenward up through the sad office tile rafters, but I’ve got other more pressing matters to attend to as everyone else begins to sing.
I quickly turn back to my son. “OMG- who’s gonna tell your father about this??? I just feel like my husband needs to know this,” I say, eyes wide. “I’ll take care of it,” she says. “Thank you, son,” I say with solemn sincerity. I reach out and squeeze her hand, and she squeezes back. I’m looking the other way again when she suddenly kisses my hand loudly.
I audibly gasp melodramatically, then stare at her, momentarily perplexed and amused. This is the kind of abrupt bullshit she always pulls, because she thinks I’m “too dignified and serious and need to lighten up a little.” I stare at her in disbelief for a second while she laughs. “Oh by the way- [Daddy®] and I talked, and I’m your husband when she’s not here. Because we decided you need A Backup Husband™️ for when one of us isn’t here, because you need help, what with your being so accident-prone. And we know that sometimes you just need somebody to talk to, and give you snacks, and lean against a tree with, and to bring a blanket so you can sit on the grass during lunch together with them and talk.”
“Thank you,” I say, moved by how they secretly teamed up to look out for me. “You’re welcome,” she replies sincerely. Eyes glinting, she says, “Now you can go ahead and tell me the little joke that you wanted to say.”
I beam at being seen, then abruptly become serious and clear my throat. “I did soooooo not sign up for polygamy,” I say evenly, trying not to smile.
“This isn’t polygamy- it’s polyandry.” My son corrects me. “You’re such a little genius, son!” I gush. “I’m a Little Einstein,” she says, and we burst into laughter together. I can’t breathe because I can’t stop laughing, and The Choir Director is looking at me again.
✨✨✨
Everything feels sweetly nostalgic during my partially sad stroll down Memory Lane, until I inexplicably find myself once again in front of my old house. I remember this place. Somebody is about to answer the door- I can see their silhouette walking towards me, partially obscured through frosted glass. I know exactly who it is, and feel unconditional love and complete adoration flooding through me at the thought of seeing them again. But once it fully registers with me where I am, I bolt.
✨✨✨
I jolt back into consciousness in my bed, not sure if I passed out or magically fell asleep, not sure if either one is even better or worse than the other. I’m suddenly too hot, and frantically kick my velvet peacock print comforter off of me, quickly shoving the parts of it still close to my face and torso away from my body with my hands, like it’s dangerous because it’s viciously biting me or something. I hyperventilate for a few moments in corpse pose, then cover my face with my hands while I try to will my heartbeat to still for a moment. I feel like it’s trying to thrash its way right outta my chest.
After a few minutes, I’m finally calmer and cooler, but I still feel my heart racing within my ribs like it’s trying to run its way right out of me. I wonder with dark amusement if my heart is capable of becoming sentient and running off to start a new life without me, abandoning my ostensibly lifeless body for whatever freedom lies beyond me. I imagine its mad dash for freedom after it’s escaped my ribs, but in my imagination, my heart looks a perfect cartoon drawing of a heart from a 1960s children cartoon, like Snoopy making Valentines, with defined outlines and vibrant colors, and my heart is wearing sneakers- something I never wear to the point that I’m constantly falling over suddenly every time I try to wear sneakers, like a poor newbie in heels. Because sneakers are so ugly, my body and soul literally reject them. If my heart is wearing sneakers in my own imagination, then it clearly doesn’t even belong to me anymore. I frown and wonder if my heart is trying to escape from inside of me because the confines of my human meat suit are simply too miserable to exist within.
Okay, this is getting too dark- I shake my head and groan, then mentally try to move on to whatever next thought pops into my overstuffed clown car of a brain. I tilt my head and shift my body, take an unsatisfying deep breath that doesn’t feel deep enough on a molecular level, and try to relax into my next thought. I smile to myself, anticipating some mildly amusing quirky bullshit to pop into my brain.
I suddenly remember why I became so sad that I had stopped eating entirely for a time in the first place; and just like that, I feel both my heart and lungs completely stop for a shared moment as utter agony washes back over me. Eventually, I feel them come back, my racing heartbeats and my inadequate breathing, but I don’t. In some removed corner of my mind, I start to panic over my own absence. How can I possibly feel so disconnected from my own sense of self?
“Breathe,” I command myself, but I cannot comply. It’s then that I suddenly remember that I haven’t quite been able to breathe for years, so how am I supposed to start now?
