And so it begins.
When I was born something went wrong. My lungs filled with liquid, I couldn’t breathe, and they had to put me in a oxygen tank for a week before my mom could hold me.
Sometimes I think I can remember it. People say that’s ridiculous, you were only days old. No one’s memory is that good. But some days I swear I can remember, I can see the plastic around me, I can feel the needle in my leg…I feel confinement, I feel quiet, I feel alone…
But then again I am a writer. So perhaps I created this very real scenario by imagining how this event could have occurred. By putting myself in that place, just as I do with each of my characters. That’s how many memories are anyways. We create them in the way we think they should be, relying on the facts we’ve been told.
That’s where I began. Well not truly. Truly I began in the womb, but on December 27th I touched air. I surfaced, I met the world. The world met me.
And that is where this tale begins. The start is supposed to be exciting, wonderful, gripping. The beginning of the story should hook you, the writing teachers always tell us. You need a hook, they hammer into our brains. Hook. Hook. Hook.
It’s funny to think about your life as a book. Sometimes I imagine I’m in a novel. God is my author, and I’m the protagonist who is aware she’s in a book and trapezes around with this knowledge. I see the world in two settings: Whimsical and dark.
There are days where yes, I am successful at going about, my emotions are ever present but I work with them, people are here, I am here, we are all here…
I am floating, I am singing, I am drifting in this idealistic mindset I have created for myself.
And then there are days when suddenly reality itself has collapsed and suddenly my mind stops and my heart starts to scream. Suddenly I can’t eat properly, I can’t sleep properly, I can’t think, I can’t read, I can’t speak… I am nothing but the fire of emotions, the fire of humanity. I am anger. I am sadness. I am pain.
And it comes as quickly as it leaves. They say this is part of being a woman. A part of being a sensitive woman. But if this is is what it means to be a woman, I’m not so sure I want to be one.
My beginning was odd. My beginning was isolated. And so my future would follow.
I would live afraid, or I would live in love. Afraid of every detail or in love with every detail. I am a woman of extremes, a woman of exaggeration as well. They tell me this is how writers are, how all passionate people are…
God is either right in my face, or miles away. I can either feel him in my soul in every cell in my body or I can’t even focus on him.
I am not good at lukewarm. I am not good at in between. I either care or I do not.
I used to care about things.
Suddenly I have become apathetic.
Apathy. It will be the death of me.
Suddenly nothing seems real, and I feel like the protagonist in a bad fanfiction.
The world, much like the writing, feel clunky, awkward, pointless. It is just going on for the sake of going on. Because the writer wants it to. But the character has no wants, no tangible goals. They always tell you in screenwriting, “Your character needs a tangible goal. They can’t want nothing. Everyone wants something.”
So what do I want? What is it that I’m getting at here?
Follow me down the rabbit hole.
We’ll find out.