A self biography Tolie had made...
The beginning of a life is a sacred thing. A story with its own genre; cover to cover its pages are filled with what the narrator writes, the last few pages the black-blue ink still dries. A baby is our first page, born rather frail and weak. When bones were brittle, defective lungs, and a heart with many holes and tears. Not because she harbored hatred, she was born without the ability to hate. Growing up was hard because she was constantly bullied, hiding in the classrooms during lunch because the halls were a battlefield and she wasn't strong enough to fight those battles. The halls were an arsenal of names and she was called them all. In the first grade she earned her nickname that would follow her to the day she graduated; Popper. One part because of the pills, ninety nine parts because of the cruelty. See what these kids didn't know is these pills kept Popper alive. Without these medications before each meal, each sunset and sunrise, popper'a story would be cut short. Later on that year, she was sent home early from school. The news repeating the same headlines, because when hatred hit it hit hard, and when it hit it burned and when it burned it collapsed.... Within those collapsed towers and thousands of people, a man who risked his life to save hundreds. From then on, she began to live with fear in her heart. Now building up through school, health problems arose and medication was the key. Oh how the names could be cruel. She had a personality made up of tests and pills, lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs. Four fifths suicidal and a tidal wave of antidepressants. She tried to cut her story short in her own hands due to the cruelty and wanting to die her own way and not due to the terminal illness. She secluded herself within the safety of four walls in her house, playing solitaire spin the bottle and tried to kiss the parts of her that were wounded. In grade eleven she met a boy who she thought was her life. This boy had alternate motives, who knew love hurt so badly? Not only through emotional but through tragic pain. A car screech and a woman's scream, followed by the sound of crunching metal. From a simple argument, a gun was brought up and she knew she must find an end. Blessed with a baby a short time later but also cursed with the memories. She would shout and cry within the realms if her dreams because even there, she wasn't safe. To this day, she still thinks she's ugly despite a loving son who's definition of the word beauty begins with the word mom and ends with the words isn't, because she has always been beautiful to him. He saw her heart before he saw her skin. He saw what was inside and deemed her beautiful. The writer fell gravely sick, was in the hospital, wasting away with machines hooked to her body that buzzed and beeped every time her heart leaped. A mask around her face to give her oxygen because her lungs- couldn't filter carbon dioxide from oxygen. Her mother stayed well past visiting hour because for her that term didn't apply. You know the worst part about being sick is you get all the free ice cream you ask for... The worst part about that is realizing there's nothing more they can do for you; ice cream doesn't make everything okay. At that moment the writer realized that there aren't enough miracles to go around.. There's too many people petitioning god for the winning lotto ticket. So there's silence. No music. The only sound that breaks the silence are the sounds of a dying girls mother taking liberties with heaven. There's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but She realized every breath we take has to be given back... what is your night worth without a story to tell, and why wield a word like worth if you’ve got nothing to sell. people drop pennies down a wishing well as if the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. but if you’ve got expectations expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of the hard work, hang in, hold on mentality, like I accept any challenge so challenge me
like I’ve brought a knife to this gun fight, but other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit I’ve had practice. She broke free of the monitors and now lives on, because her will is made if stone and her heart as large as a planet. Before the author can close her story, she must finish writing the pages and if she runs out? There's always time to write a sequel.