I am sorry—it’s not fair that I kept swimming out in the ocean until the water was higher than my head and only stopping when you’d call me back to earth. It’s not fair that I do let my emotions run away with me until I run away myself because I know you’ll follow me and bring me back. You always do. I realize this is who you are—you were dealt the protective nature and have honed it over years of being the watcher, the caretaker, the one who stifles your own wants and impulses in order to help your family. I am already coming too close to taking advantage of these instincts in you by leaving myself out in the open and unguarded. You are right—my self-preservation instinct is not always strong. I am so certain of you. And I do become so easily tempted to just let myself float away now that I know you have a watchful eye in my direction and will reach out to pull me back before I get too far. This is a theft. I need to be my own watchdog and not let the burden of caring for yet another human fall solely to you. Not to not ever fall needy. Just, as a general rule to answer my own cries of alarm myself. With, all the time, the sheltering certainty that if I do ever get out of my own control, I won’t hit the bottom before I’m caught up in your arms.
And I, you.
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