The tiredness crawls its way into my head like a good high’s warm wave. But this water turns icy when I tell my body it has to keep going, stay awake.

All I want to do is sleep, but I can’t. I’ve got to keep typing, keep my eyes open—day in, day out. Day in, day out.

The day is in now. The tide is high. I’m drowning. Someone save me. I don’t know how to swim. The minutes are rip currents taking me deeper into the day. I don’t want to go. I want to stay on the beach, where nothing changes, including the time. Why can’t I stay on the beach? There are others there, building sandcastles and giggling. I can dream like them; I can’t swim. I never learned how. My mother was overprotective. My sister was too aggressive with her attempts. The fear of deep water has been in me for too long. I can’t fight the waves. I never learned how! I can’t participate in the change going on all around me. I’m going deeper. I’m drowning.

Deep breath. Gasping. I can’t stop respiration. Salt water in my lungs. The fire in my throat and my chest. My ears are popping. My eyes—I can’t see. I don’t want to. There’s darkness. Darkness. Deeper. I’m sinking. Save me. Save me.