i'm on the way out

"all growns up" as my dad would say

i have a hard time breathing.

when i was little, my dad used to hug me every time i was hyperventilating. he would sit with me until i stopped being scared of self-asphyxiation. he would wipe my tears, and then my snot. he would say “you ready?” and i would nod and i would forget why i was crying in the first place.

somewhere in between the job that he hates and the brother that he doesn’t speak to, he was built to be a father.

he was built to see himself in my eyes. he was built for every conversation about the end of the world. he was built for the advice, and the hormones, and the music taste.

i’ve tried for seventeen years, but i don’t think i was built to be anyone’s daughter.

i could push it to the back of my mind for a long time, but it’s 8am and i haven’t slept. there’s too much to think about, too much to pack, and too much i don’t want to see in my dreams.

i’m moving out of my parents’ house in two days and i can’t seem to care. i’ve written so many metaphors about fingerprints and my childhood, but i can’t lie to you; i don’t feel any of it.

i haven’t written in a while because i’m so scared that i’ll immortalize myself as apathetic. after a lifetime of crushed lungs, this is the first time i can breathe deeply. maybe it’s the fact that i’m finally quitting cigarettes, or maybe i’m just broken.

i’ve had one foot out the door for a long time. i frequently stayed out all night when i was sixteen. i spent eight months last year at boarding school. i’ve been living alone all summer. i’ve been primed to leave early.

i’ve been finding pieces of my childhood around the apartment. the carpets swallowed half my secrets, my old pillowcase has the rest. my clothes are folding themselves into people: the guy from my 10th grade physics class, my fourth grade teacher, my grandfather’s shadow. words from my old notebooks are leaking through packing tape. and yet, i haven’t cried once.

i had a fantastic childhood; i grew up supported by my parents and their bank accounts. i’ve never had to worry about things. i’ve been given agency and freedom and a more interesting life than most.

i have so many people to hate and so many more to thank.

and, yet.

what currently is will soon be what was and my whole life is funneling down to saturday and it’s nothing and it’s everything and maybe by writing this i’m proving that i do actually care but then why don’t i feel it and i’m still so young but i feel so old and once again i can’t breathe.

i’m flying to switzerland first, everywhere else next. i don’t know if i still want to go to college. i don’t know when i’ll fall in love again. i don’t know the people who will one day be my closest friends.

all i know is that, right now, my dad is still here to hug me and calm me down and show me that i’ll always be someone’s favorite.

once i send this essay out, i’ll get ready to have lunch with him for the last time as a child. now, i wear makeup and dress myself, but he still sees fragments of the good old days in pieces of my skin.

i’m terrified that i’ll leave and they’ll disappear.