Free Some Kind of Peace by Camilla Grebe, Åsa Träff Page A

something happened that shouldn’t have happened. We were diving outside Kungsbacka on the west coast of Sweden with Stefan’s buddies Peppe and Malin. Stefan and I had just started our first dive when something frightened me and I was seized by panic.
    It was dark, of course, a loathsome, dense, impenetrable darkness, massive as a concrete wall. The black water’s chill penetrated through the seams of my wet suit. I remember an almost transparent shrimp swimming nonchalantly past my mask and vanishing into the darkness, like a space probe on its way into Nothing. Its small legs moved jerkily and made it look like a mobile on a string, the kind you hang over a baby’s crib. Against my will, I felt my body getting stiffer, my heart beating faster, and the familiar cramp spreading in my body. I turned around to give Stefan the sign for ascent. I still had control over my body, but as I looked around I saw only more darkness. No Stefan. Instinctively, I groped around in the dark water, seeking the cold, hard steel surface of the tank or the rough neoprene.
    The realization struck me in stages: Stefan wasn’t here. I would have to get up to the surface by myself. I was alone in the darkness. The cramp in my chest was almost unbearable and I felt that I had to, really had to take off the mask because I was going to suffocate. I had to get out of this horrible darkness. I tried to think about sunlight. I closed my eyes and saw it before me, but it was too late. The damage was already done. My thoughts could no longer affect my panic-stricken, uncontrolled body.
    I brought my hand toward my forehead and took hold of the upper edge of the mask and coaxed it carefully off as I spit out the regulator. The cold water that washed over my face felt liberating, and with surprise Iheard a gurgling sound coming out of my throat as I rose uncontrollably toward the surface.
    I was inconsolable that evening. I had violated the most fundamental safety rules of diving. Stefan sat on the edge of the bed and stroked my hair. He was worried and confused: How could I simply lose control like that? I know he never understood how I could lose control over my body so easily.
    After all, his body always obeyed.
    It took several years for me to get over this incident, to get past the panic-stricken feeling of total loss of control, surrounded by all the darkness, the cold. A prisoner in my own body.

It is yet another stunningly beautiful but oppressively stifling late-summer evening. The tall pines shade the house and it is pleasantly cool inside when I come home. I open all the windows and French windows anyway, call for Ziggy, and take the cat food out of the cupboard. He ought to be hungry, because he didn’t eat anything yesterday and was out all last night and all day.
    With a certain reluctance I go through the mail, but there is no gray envelope waiting for me this time. I pull on an old bleached-out bikini and take a quick swim. The sea has warmed up in the hot summer and it is a pleasure to swim, but today I keep it short. Instead, I spend the evening listening to David Bowie, drinking sour wine out of a box, skimming through research articles, and writing treatment plans. It is almost half past midnight when I set the articles aside, curl up on my side in bed, and almost immediately fall asleep.
    I wake up in the middle of the night and it immediately strikes me that something is wrong. Before I’ve even opened my eyes, I know something has happened. It’s as if the air is different somehow. It feels suffocating, pressed against my face and my body—it seems far too heavy and tactile to be air.
    I look up. Close my eyes. Look.
    There is no difference in what I see with my eyes open and closed: compact darkness. A velvety, hollow, black hell. My heart beats faster as I lean over the side of the bed and fumble for the flashlight on the floor. It’s a solid one, made of sturdy black plastic and really big. Waterproof, it is presumably