#autobiography

[mournfulroses]

Sinéad O'Connor, from her book titled "Rememberings," originally published in June 2021

[theoptia]

Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet

[charnel-grounds]

M. Berbiguier (1765–1851)

frontispiece from “Les Farfadets, ou Tous les démons ne sont pas de l’autre monde,” 1821

source

[miggsboson]

It hurt, but I don’t regret it. 

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was forced to read a Donald Trump autobiography for one of my college courses. It was just the plot of Boss Baby. He thought nobody would notice. 

[haveyoumetmythief]

Me: It is Perfectly Normal to struggle while doing visual tasks in the dark, and fumbling while plugging in my phone is a neutral act. It has been over a decade, can you please just-

The Thing Inside My Brain:

[caffeinewitchcraft]

The Car Crash Protocol

Summary: An autobiographical short story about childhood anxiety. Tw mental health, anxiety, death mention, autobiography

*((Aka: I'm combating my current writing anxiety by sharing my warm ups and this was 11/1. these will be crossposted with Patreon (X) which will have a few Tumblr won't see (because if I posted all of them, you'd see me here every day lol)))

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The year I was 16 I spent most of my time in the car trying to figure out how to save my whole family in case of an accident. My four siblings could be trusted (sometimes) to get themselves away from the fiery wreckage – though one or two would need to be shown how to kick out a window or how to navigate a twisted doorhandle – but my stepfather would require a plan. And so would my mom. My mother would try to get him out of his wheelchair. I’d seen it before the last two times he nearly suffocated. Her sudden flight into action and the small furrow between her brows that only appeared when she wasn’t sure if things were going to be okay. Both signs would reappear when the car stopped rolling. She’d bark at us to get out as she threw off her seatbelt and contorted her body through the narrow space between front seats to get to where my stepfather’s wheelchair stood strapped. She’d yank at his shoulders and there she’d encounter two problems; his seatbelt and the door.

In the case of a rolling crash, I knew my job. I’d reach forward – I was always in the back row, middle seat for this reason– and I’d unclip his seatbelt. Less than a second. My mom would yank him by his shoulders and together they’d fall into the gap in front of his wheelchair. Mom never anticipated how heavy he was, would often call to ask one of my brothers to help lift him when he wasn’t situated quite right at the table. In that time, I’d get the door open. Shove my step-sister out – she always looked back when accidents happened – and then I could slither out after her. I’d turn and grab my stepfather by the belt loops. Yank him off my mother, yank him outside. I’d practiced this maneuver by pulling my bed around the room and I figured he wasn’t much heavier than that. From there I’d yell for my brother (though I doubted I’d have to yell, he would be there with me) and together we’d get him away from the flames. My sister would help our mother up and out when she froze. She wouldn’t freeze from fear. Mom’s a fighter, not a flight-er. She’d be shocked by how effective her kids could be. That she didn’t have to do it alone this time.

I dreaded a water crash.

My brother and I were lifeguards and my sister had the training of one without the desire to be one. Both of my stepsiblings were fast.  All five of us kids were strong swimmers, but even strong swimmers couldn’t fight their instincts. I knew that when the water slammed into the front windshield, shattering it and rushing in with concussive force, we’d all panic. Our heads would fill with the need to get out. Would I be able to unclip my stepdad’s seatbelt? Would I be able to open the door?

I grimly made myself go through the alternative. In it, I let my instincts win. I kicked out the back window and swam out with my siblings, elbows digging into each others’ sides and feet banging against the metal hull of the van as we lashed out in a desperate attempt to live. The fear wouldn’t fade until my head breached the surface. I knew it wouldn’t. I’d gasp for air and, once my lungs had their fill, I’d suddenly remember. The wheelchair. My stepfather. My mother.

I could see the result like a psychic. The crumbled edges of the window would perfectly frame my mother’s fearful face. The furrow in her brow would smooth. Her desperate yanking at my stepfather’s shoulders would stop. Her slack hands would drift up in the current. My stepfather’s hair like an anemone would cover her face. Together they’d sink and even when I tried to swim after them, ears popping and searing from pressure, I’d never touch that car again.

I knew I needed to be better prepared. I couldn’t let myself panic when the car crashed. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I only had two jobs. Unclip the seatbelt. Open the door. The rest would sort itself out.

The Car Crash Protocol was top of mind the evening I remember being happiest. My mother was driving us all back from a show. Something festive. Maybe a Candlelight concert? We were singing. A musical family thanks to my step-dad, the musician. We were singing Carol of the Bells in four parts. Me, the alto. My sisters, the sopranos. My brother the tenor and my step-brother as the percussionist. The radio cut across discordantly. My mother and stepfather were humming along to the B-52s, trying to get us to change our song choice. Carol of the Bells wasn’t so impressive after ten times through.

We were going too fast. I craned my head around my stepfather’s shoulders – I was in the back, middle seat – to squint at the speedometer. Thirty-six miles per hour. Maybe thirty-seven. We were heading towards a residential area. Shouldn’t we be going twenty-five now?

“Ding dong, ding doooooooong,” I sang alongside my sisters. We knew to draw out the vowel in the song.

“Bummmmmm,” my brothers droned. They did not care about the vowel.

“Summer lovin’!” my mom encouraged.

“Happened so fast,” my stepdad agreed. He inhaled greedily, lips pursing around his oxygen tube. Then, louder, “Summer lovin!”

“Had me a blaaast!”

The car careened around a curve and, with a jolt, I recognized where we were. My dad’s house would be up on the left soon. I imagined the car crash happening there, the wheels clipping the curb on the next turn. We’d roll right over the raised planters in the front yard, once, twice, and then stop just shy of my bedroom window.

The car would roll and tremble from side to side, like a quarter almost finished spinning across the table. Crunch, crunch. Then it would be like all the other times. Screaming and clawing hands. I’d reach for the seatbelt. Click. My mom would be between the seats, brow furrowing. Her hands would stretch out and—

My dad would throw open the door to the van.

Dad would get us all out.

A warmth settled deep in my chest. Even if he didn’t like my stepfather, my dad would help. The car happily rolled alongside the house, my mother finally observing the speed limit. My dad would be in the family room at this time, watching the news with my stepmom. They’d hear the crash.

The warmth swelled and exploded through me, washing through the car like the flames I’d envisioned so often. I saw it rush over the grass I’d mowed last weekend and seep through the cracks in the red door. It flowed through the halls of my dad’s house and found him and his wife on the brown, corduroy couch. I could feel them all at once, my brothers and my sisters, my mother and my stepfather, my dad and my stepmom. Their lights spun around me in a dizzying array, and I knew this was what it was to feel whole. My favorite people so close I could feel them.

I swiped at my eyes in the black gaps between streetlights. A sweet ache spilled through my chest and pressed viciously against my throat. When I finally joined my siblings in song, the warble in my voice sounded enough like Sandy nobody noticed. The growing distance between my dad’s house and the van yawned like an abyss.

The cold crept in like water through the cracked windows, getting colder and colder as we sank beneath the waves. For the first time, I fought against the chill. I had the kindling for it. I sparked the memory against my flint heart over and over again.

That was the happiest I felt the year I was 16.