What they don’t tell you about flying is that it’s not effortless. It’s hard as hell. It seems easy, carefree. But it’s not.
I have the wings: big, clunky things, extending from my back. They itched like crazy growing in. My friend offered to knit me a custom sweater, with holes in the back, which is nice. I miss my old sweaters. But it’s taking a while, since they don’t exactly make patterns for people like me, so for now, I’m cold most of the time. I cut all my t-shirts, so I can still wear them, but none of them sit right.
And the feathers make me sneeze. My nose hasn’t stopped running for weeks. I tried allergy meds, but then my feathers started dropping out, so now I just deal. But anyway. I could handle that stuff, with adjustments and interruptions in my everyday life, if that was the price of soaring through the air, weightless and at peace. But like I said. You don’t really get that.
Taking off is the hardest part. I have to get a running start, and I look so stupid, with them flailing behind me. I’ve always been terrible at running. I mean, I’m not that slow or anything, but I run weird, or something, or at least that’s what Jackson R. told me during fourth grade P.E., and my friends have sheepishly confirmed. But I can’t take off without running, so.
I sprint until I get enough speed, and then my feet leave the ground, Converse high tops skimming concrete, and I pump my wings like there’s no tomorrow, cause if I don’t stay in the air I have to do the running start again. And then I get high enough to catch the wind and start gliding.
That’s the best part. Gliding, I mean. Sometimes, I catch the wind and lock my wings and then I soar. The wind pushing against my face, tears leaking from my eyes, the ground far away, unreal. Then everything is worth it, the running, the clothes, everything.
But I haven’t got the hang of it yet. I can glide for thirty seconds in a row, tops. I spend the rest of my time flapping frantically. I’ve been watching the birds, crows and seagulls, mostly, to see how they do it, but it’s not really helping. They make it look like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like they don’t have a care. I hate birds. They scared me when I couldn’t fly, and they annoy and scare me now that I can. They taunt me with their ease, their joy, all the reasons I wanted this in the first place.
You don’t forget your worries when you’re flying. It’s not a release. It’s like a long hike. No, running the mile. Yeah, it’s just like running the mile. It’s tiring and it’s faster than walking, sorta, and it’s cold, and the whole time you’re thinking, god, this sucks, why do I have to do this. But it doesn't suck so bad that it replaces all the stuff you’re worried about. If it was, like, exhausting or really painful or something, that’d be ok. I’d just be focused on that, and I’d get to feel all martyr-like, and all my normal problems would fade in comparison. But no.
I was lying before, when I said I cut holes in all my t-shirts. I cut holes in most of them. I set my favorite one aside, a red and blue striped shirt that I got as a hand-me-down from my friend. I couldn’t bear to take scissors to it.
Well, actually, it wasn’t really the destruction of the shirt that I couldn’t bear. It’s that part of me still believes maybe this will go away. At first, I was terrified I would find it had all been a dream, that I was normal again. And every day, I’d wake up, and my wings would still be there. Then I figured out all the bad parts. All the stuff I told you about. And now I just can’t believe there’s no way out. Even if it’s by saw or scalpel, someday, I won’t bear this weight anymore.
So I need something I can still wear when that day rolls around.
I have the wings: big, clunky things, extending from my back. They itched like crazy growing in. My friend offered to knit me a custom sweater, with holes in the back, which is nice. I miss my old sweaters. But it’s taking a while, since they don’t exactly make patterns for people like me, so for now, I’m cold most of the time. I cut all my t-shirts, so I can still wear them, but none of them sit right.
And the feathers make me sneeze. My nose hasn’t stopped running for weeks. I tried allergy meds, but then my feathers started dropping out, so now I just deal. But anyway. I could handle that stuff, with adjustments and interruptions in my everyday life, if that was the price of soaring through the air, weightless and at peace. But like I said. You don’t really get that.
Taking off is the hardest part. I have to get a running start, and I look so stupid, with them flailing behind me. I’ve always been terrible at running. I mean, I’m not that slow or anything, but I run weird, or something, or at least that’s what Jackson R. told me during fourth grade P.E., and my friends have sheepishly confirmed. But I can’t take off without running, so.
I sprint until I get enough speed, and then my feet leave the ground, Converse high tops skimming concrete, and I pump my wings like there’s no tomorrow, cause if I don’t stay in the air I have to do the running start again. And then I get high enough to catch the wind and start gliding.
That’s the best part. Gliding, I mean. Sometimes, I catch the wind and lock my wings and then I soar. The wind pushing against my face, tears leaking from my eyes, the ground far away, unreal. Then everything is worth it, the running, the clothes, everything.
But I haven’t got the hang of it yet. I can glide for thirty seconds in a row, tops. I spend the rest of my time flapping frantically. I’ve been watching the birds, crows and seagulls, mostly, to see how they do it, but it’s not really helping. They make it look like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like they don’t have a care. I hate birds. They scared me when I couldn’t fly, and they annoy and scare me now that I can. They taunt me with their ease, their joy, all the reasons I wanted this in the first place.
You don’t forget your worries when you’re flying. It’s not a release. It’s like a long hike. No, running the mile. Yeah, it’s just like running the mile. It’s tiring and it’s faster than walking, sorta, and it’s cold, and the whole time you’re thinking, god, this sucks, why do I have to do this. But it doesn't suck so bad that it replaces all the stuff you’re worried about. If it was, like, exhausting or really painful or something, that’d be ok. I’d just be focused on that, and I’d get to feel all martyr-like, and all my normal problems would fade in comparison. But no.
I was lying before, when I said I cut holes in all my t-shirts. I cut holes in most of them. I set my favorite one aside, a red and blue striped shirt that I got as a hand-me-down from my friend. I couldn’t bear to take scissors to it.
Well, actually, it wasn’t really the destruction of the shirt that I couldn’t bear. It’s that part of me still believes maybe this will go away. At first, I was terrified I would find it had all been a dream, that I was normal again. And every day, I’d wake up, and my wings would still be there. Then I figured out all the bad parts. All the stuff I told you about. And now I just can’t believe there’s no way out. Even if it’s by saw or scalpel, someday, I won’t bear this weight anymore.
So I need something I can still wear when that day rolls around.