wow - a (brief) autobiography
âwowâ is extremely versatile.Â
you can say âwow..â and itâs usually out of astonishment, but what you follow it with determines the meaning or product of the word or astonishment. you can say, âwow, sheâs fantastic!â or âwow, what a failureâ and give one word opposite meanings; not only that, but you can expand the opposites into facets of particulars. Therefore, it is the only word that can be used to describe my first eighteen years.
Wow.Â
I used to be a dreamer. Long before the world etched its first horrors into me, and even well after that, I was a dreamer. I would stare at the sky and say, âwow, what a miracle.â I would weave stories of nighttime and sunlight and fit myself directly in the center, like a nest or a cave of sorts. It was my protection.Â
I look back at myself, and I say it in adoration:Â âWow, what an idealist.â She died soon after, because people took my dreams and swallowed them up and killed them. I began locking myself up, shutting myself away, and keeping my dreams a precious secret. I would take them out and look at them in the small hours of the morning-- I still do. I turn them over in my hands and tuck them away again, and lie down to unpleasant dreams.Â
I began plucking bones from the landscape and from my soul. I cleaned them up and spoke to them, named them and kept them as pets. I bestowed upon each of them a personality and found comfort in their gaping sockets and loose teeth. I looked at them and said it in wonder: âwow, what beauty.âÂ
Not long after, I would look down at myself and say it sadly:Â âWow, what did I do?â I tore myself to shreds and offered myself to the lowliest of people. I ran out of breath more quickly and I didnât tell anyone it was because I was smoking. I counted every scar I put on my body and lost track of how many times I had tried an illicit drug, let alone how many times I was on said drugs when I was in public. My heart ached and my mind was racing and I swear I could have been so much more.Â
I took it all much too quickly. I lavished in the notion that I acted much older than I should and situated myself among peers fitting the age category that people said I matched. I caught myself up in my own shoelaces while I was running to catch up and I fell, tangled, and got left behind and landed in the most unfortunate spot. I looked down at myself and said it in loneliness: âwow, where did i go wrong?âÂ
I ran out of friends, and upon looking I found mostly broken people. I went to them, said, âwow, look at what we can be together!â and they said, âwow, thanks for your helpâ and left. This repeated ad nauseam until finally I said it in exhaustion: âwow, this needs to stop.â
I picked myself up and glued myself back together slowly. I found someone willing to be gentle with me, to help me grind away my sharp edges. In my heartâs heart she will be my forever. Just beneath the surface, I expect the worst every single day. I look at her often, and I say it lovingly: âWow, I am lucky.âÂ
I still find myself to be jagged. I have tried to be many different things over the years: I have been harsh, and soft, and gentle, and sharp. I have rotated through many aspirations and dissertations to the point where I no longer recognize any to be my own. I scratch at my skin and pull at my hair, I crack my knuckles and my spin and I spend most of my days laying down. I crowd my room with comfort items, deny myself the right to security or care, and stare blankly at the walls. âWow, canât I breathe?âÂ
And now, as I stare at myself in the mirror, I say it in disgust:Â âWow, what have I become?â I look back along my four years of high school, in which the worst events have happened. I lost many people, friends turned on me, and I was utterly alone. It got to the point where I was far too impaired to concentrate, whether it be due to high levels of intoxication or low levels of glucose. My head spun often and I could hardly keep my lungs open enough to breathe. I contracted bronchitis and developed a complication-- that, I tell most people-- the complication was due to weak lungs from inhaling smoke -- that, I do not. I spent many nights in the back of a car far from home unbeknownst to my family. I could have gotten very, very hurt-- I did not mind. I did not care. I am reckless with myself as a person, and I never thought I would make it this far.Â
And now, as this book is closing, I say it in disappointment:Â âWow, look at what I could have been.â I could have been valedictorian, or something important if I hadnât decided to be so detrimental to my own being. I found it more important to die slowly than to work on living comfortably. That, to me, is weakness. I found comfort in the idea of death and always have: That is why I am currently working to be a funeral directer. Iâve been told I am perfect for that line of work. I sit and think of it often, but I am never absolutely sure. If I was going to be something, I would have done it by now.Â
I look back on everything, and I say it longingly:Â âWow, I could have been a dreamer.â My heart longs to believe all that I used to. Perhaps I could have eased the tension in someone elseâs heart with my stories, perhaps I could have eased hundreds of people. Instead, I drowned them. I do not know how to swim.Â
And now, I am standing on a precipice. I look around me and I see open doors and every other day, one shuts. Another shuts. Another shuts. I wait with baited breath and I swear to the wind that whatâs left of my heart is still made of gold, and I promise that whatâs left of my mind is still good. I look around me, and I say it in fear: âWow. Iâm running out of time.âÂ
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