floating

I was nervous. Until I lowered myself into the water. First my feet, then legs, then belly, then arms. All the way up to my chin. 'Trust me,' the physio said.

I realised in that moment that I've become wary of trusting strangers with the knowledge of my illness. For fear they'll make cruel judgements. For fear they'll laugh at me.

'Trust me,' he said. And with my heart racing, I lowered the rest of myself in, until the water was all the way up to my chin, closing over my body. I let the water come, I let the physio hold me, I let myself stop being terrified.

I let go.

Because there, in that moment, it didn't matter if I'm tired or achey. If I slept badly last night. The only thing was the water swooshing around me, holding me up.

The physio gently manipulated my muscles and limbs. Not trying to hurt me. But helping me to feel a little better.

The only thing was the water moving me from side to side. The deep wrinkles slowly forming on my finger and toe tips, rather than on my brow.