My bath, the North Sea and me

A scalding bath opens the door to memories: what does that say about where I've been, and what might be changing?

Note: this is an off-the-cuff, non-chronological post! Thanks for reading :)

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I’m crouching naked by the side of the bath, watching the bubbles. They’re quite flat tonight. The bath is scalding hot. I’ve already got in once and scratched my red-turning feet and given up. Then I sat over the tub, cooling my feet on the tiles. Waiting.

I can’t turn the cold tap on, the water’s off at the stopcock. The meter is leaking, and I’m delaying getting it fixed. Freelancing’s been a nightmare for a while. Turning the brass handle of the stopcock off and on three times a day. Every time I pull the brass handle up to release the water, every pipe in my little house admonishes me for leaving the job.

Sitting and waiting in the dark, I watch the steam rise. And, in the space between the two taps, I see her, striding into the pewter waves. Shouting and shouting. I’m trying and her sister is shouting and shouting too, but the wind pushes our voices away and she doesn’t look back. Under our feet, we know, are crags and rocks. Last night we hurt our toes climbing over the limpets, exploring the rock pools, looking for creatures and minibeasts.

We hoped the day would be a better weather day, but Normandy was doing its northern best and the rain and the wind arrived as we did. Undeterred, we unpacked our towels and goggles. But, before I could look, she is all 11 years old and newly minted confidence.

Her sister shouts. I shout. The wind pushes our voices back onto us and whips the waves. The rain comes and we shout her name over and over and over. She shrieks with the joy of the cold waves hitting her thighs, spray on her face.

We shout her name, the vowels tinny as they squeeze out of my throat. I fill my lungs across and down breath deep into my belly to get as much weight as possible into the next shout of her name.

I latch my eyes on her back as though that could ever be enough to keep track of her if one big wave comes over and pushes her slim body her little skull all that beautiful hair onto the rocks. If she goes under the grey, I know — I might never see her again.

Left and right, up and down, there’s not a single other person on this beach. 

Finally, thankfully, She looks round, she turns back. Her eyes are wide with curiosity — what’s wrong?! But, she reads my face and walks back to me. We get back to the sand. 

In the rain, I’d taken my glasses off, they’re fucking useless in the rain. The three of us, my children and I, we go down and up and up and down. We give up my glasses as a gift to the North Sea. 

My sight for my child. She’s beside herself about my glasses. I hug her and hold her and look her and tell her — It’s a deal every parent would make, ten times — a thousand times — over. Forever and ever.

Looking at my tiles, Normandy blends to the morning, afternoon and evening, my little shower in Rome. Every day, I couldn’t quite get rid of the hot sharp stink of sweat from my armpits. In the tepid shower of my halfway house AirBNB, I soaped and soaped my armpits and longed for a hot bath to open my pores so I could get clean. Break the film of stank that clung to my skin. I needed to stop stinking in front of the writer who invited me over, the person I couldn’t quite believe is nice to me. However I scrubbed and whatever soap and deodorant I used, I just kept on stinking.

Rome washes away. Still hunched, leaning on the tongue and groove panelling in my little, one-person sized bathroom, the wall is just wide enough to lean my back on, I’m back to the North Sea. I see myself lying on my back in the sea in Clacton. I’d run away for a few days. Three months before Rome. I needed to get away from him, from home. 

After work, I sat on the slow train across Essex. In the morning, in surprising June heat, I ran down the coast, to the end of a sandy path. Turned back, jogging back by the other morning walkers and mobility-scooter users, little dogs in pushchairs.

Roasting hot and sweating out wine from my night in my Premier Inn one-person slumber party, I look left to my beachfront hotel. Turn right to the sea. Left, right. Again.

The population of Clacton, at 9am on a Saturday morning, seemed to be mostly elderly people, disabled people. People who’ve seen a lot of life and, in my reckoning, probably aren’t that shockable. 

They don’t know me, I don’t know them, and tomorrow, I’ll be gone. I walk to the shore, unlace my running shoes, pull off my socks, my teeshirt, my shorts and - fuck it - my sports bra. 

I don’t remember the slap of the cool water on my sweaty torso, but I remember the glee of freedom. Lying in the sea, being carried by the waves after running thud thud thud for a couple of miles. The heat on my skin, the water warm at the surface, the chill from below drawing out the heat from my back, my legs, or so it felt. 

Just me, alone, in the water, with nothing to do but feel the eddy of the sea and wince at the bright sunshine. Watching people enjoying their morning walk in the sun. They didn’t know me, I didn’t know them. Just me, on my back, sun on my skin and held up by the sea.

Sitting on the yellowing lino, these memories of hot sharp sweat and shortness of breath. Why are these memories so close to the surface tonight? Memories I’ve not touched for years. Is it, that I know it’s 6 years, now, since my ex and I finally agreed to stop the mutual self-harm of our marriage? That this is the first year I’ve not been at the helm of the single-parent ship?

I hold them, 1, 2, 3. I don’t run away from them. Remember each little moment. Savour those senses.

They say, as you recover from trauma, your brain can sometimes ‘move’ those signals that are our memories. Rather than living in the ‘defensive’ parts of our brain — the amygdala, one of the ancient, self-protective parts of our brains — memories can ‘move’ to the hippocampus. Here, memories are best stored, processed, sorted. 

Recently, a brother shared some stories with me. Things I half knew. It both broke me a little, and answered a lot of questions.

I don’t have an fMRI in my bedroom, and I’m not a trained scientist, so I’m being careful about how I express these words.

But six years into single life, four years into therapy, and almost a year as an empty-nester, there is new space in my brain. And for that, I am thankful.

The water has cooled. I ease myself in, pick up my book, and turn the page.