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I undo the belt around my white terrycloth robe. It slides off my body, exposing my black bikini. It does a good job hiding my round butt and supple breasts—the parts of me I prefer no prying eyes will linger on for too long in case anyone joins me while I’m doing laps.
Peeling the robe off me and kicking off my flip-flops, I toss it to the nearest lounger and knot my hair up in a messy bun on the top of my head. I fish the goggles from my robe’s pocket, secure them on, and head to take my position at the pool.
My toes wiggle on the edge, cool water brushing my feet. I allow my body several moments to adjust to the temperature, stretching my arms up to get ready to dive in.
I suck in a deep inhale, carrying the smell of chlorine into my lungs…
And jump headfirst into the pool.
My legs, feet, arms, and lungs all work in unison to carry me back and forth. I swim and swim, unloading the stress of the passing week in the water.
Kick, lift my arm, breathe. Kick, lift the other arm, twist my head, and breathe to the other side. Reach the end, spin. And start all over again.
Counting my laps doesn’t do it for me. I’m not in a secret competition with myself. I swim for fun, for the meditative quality the repetitive strokes have on my body and mind.
This exercise, much like jogging, holds the place that praying had in my routine. I still feel so guilty, though, for dropping them.
But I had no other choice.
The housemothers nor the kids I grew up with hadn’t hurt me or anything like that. I don’t resent them or the religious values they had ingrained in me. I love them. I’d been taken care of and had a couple of friends every once in a while until they were adopted.
The people and the rituals per se aren’t what I put behind as soon as I embarked on this new path in my life.
The painful emotions resurface whenever I think about any of them. They hurt too badly to cling onto.
The despondent housemother’s smile whenever I, again, wasn’t selected for adoption. A friend waving at me for the last time with a suitcase rolling behind her. The countless times I fell to my knees, begging God to give me my real family back.
Which is why anything that triggered memories of my time there had to be wiped away. Whatever I could control, anyway.
I have my new life now. My very own apartment, working for Michelle, swimming in a bikini and not in a one-piece with sleeves.
Those are stark affirmations of the independent woman I’ve grown to be.
A butterfly who broke free of its cocoon. I try to drill into myself how I’m not wounded by the rejection of my parents or those who didn’t want to adopt me. I’m my own person.
Should my biological parents ever show up, I’ll be the happiest woman on earth. Until then, I’m committed to being content and confident.
With a deep inhale, I head back in the other direction. My feet splash as I repeat my usual affirmations to myself, more words I hadn’t been allowed to tell myself while in the orphanage.
I’m wonderful. I’m strong. I can conquer the world.
Once more.
I’m wonderful. I’m…
The prickly sensation returns in full force, the heaviness of someone’s stare landing at the base of my skull.
I’m not alone in the pool area.
Though my body warmed up from minutes of thrusting myself through the water, a cold chill envelops me. I keep swimming, closing my eyes now, and hoping I’m being paranoid for no reason.
To no avail. Metaphorical buckets of ice are being dumped into the pool. I’m frozen.
Someone’s here.
Okay, no biggie. It’s not a private pool, and I’ve had it happen to me before. I’ll just climb out, cover myself quickly, and slip out of here.
My strokes slow as I drive my body toward the edge.
