Why I Wilt

I’ve always been jealous of flowers. 

Roses, daisies, lilies. Sunflowers. 

Imagine a life like theirs. Beginning as a little seed nestled in dark, damp soil, nurtured by trickles of water and patches of sunlight. No one else to worry about beside yourself. No one to disappoint. If you need a few more days to sprout, take a few more days to sprout. You have time.

Then the day comes to burst through the soil in an elegant stem, pushed upwards from your own roots. That feeling of growing stronger, taller, more beautiful. Basking in light, showered by cool water. 

Of course, there are those that wilt. Those that, after days of trying to sustain themselves alone, have to give in to the terrible weight of their petals and curl over into themselves. They’ll need about a day or two of consistent watering and adequate sunlight, and they’ll be back to beaming in no time. 

Imagine if that’s how people worked. 

Imagine if on the days where you can’t lift your own head, a helping hand could stick you on a sunny windowsill, slide over a Smart Water, maybe breathe on you a little bit, and you’d be back to yourself in mere hours. 

I imagine things would be a lot easier that way. 

It’s funny, the way I can’t even feel my petals anymore. My stem lost its strength a while back and my head has been kissing my soil for quite some time. It’s also funny- no, wait, it’s ironic- how I think I used to resemble a sunflower. 

Now, I wilt. 

I know quite a lot of helping hands too. The amount of times I’ve been placed on that sunny windowsill, given a water bottle, and had carbon dioxide wash over me in the form of well wishes has grown past my knowledge. I’ve even had helping hands lift my petals for me, reinforce my stem with their own strength, pick my drooping head up and kiss the top of it. I’d like to turn to them and say thank you, but I’m now a flower, and my lips can’t seem to work anymore. And what would I say anyway? 

“Thank you, but give it a day, and I’ll be back to where I was.”

“Thanks, but please know that it's not your fault if I begin to wilt again. It’s the way it’s meant to be.”

“Thank you, but I’m actually allergic to the sun.”

And sometimes, I think I am actually allergic to the sun on those days that I manage to lift myself from bed, soil trailing behind me, and walk outside. The sun’s too hot, and I can’t wear as many clothes as I’d like to, so I turn and head back inside, past my mother with the corners of her mouth turned down. Sometimes, the sun is beating through my closed blinds, shining through to all the way underneath my eyelids. I’ll wake, sneeze, and head back to sleep, this time covering my head with a pillow. 

It would make sense too, if I was allergic to the sun. Then at least, I’d have an excuse. Then maybe, those helping hands wouldn’t get so angry that their temporary Band-Aid on my life hasn’t been working. I’ll need to get allergy tested one of these days. 

Maybe that’s why my skin burns so easily, no matter how much sun protectant I slather on. Maybe that’s why my skin is so pale, all the life sucked out of it. Maybe that’s why my eyes don’t work, forcing me to wear contact lenses and glasses for my entire life. Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to be awake unless the moon has kicked the sun out of the sky and everyone else is asleep. 

Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. 

After my mother lost her breasts instead of her hair in an effort to contain the villainous clumps of cells living in her body, the smell of flowers in our house was suffocating. Those bright star-gazer lilies, which are her favorite, were all I could see, smell, hear for weeks. And yes, I do mean “hear”. Do you know how loud flowers can be? Have you ever heard the roses’ delicate singing, or the baby breaths’ cries? The sunflowers humming, or the carnations whispering? The tulips are silent; they can speak, but they choose to listen instead. The rest of the flowers are loud enough anyways. 

I was most jealous of flowers then. 

I wonder if there’s a flower out there that’s allergic to the sun too. I wonder if I’m alone in my condition, or if anyone else shares my frustrations in the sensation of being unable to enjoy something that gives you life. 

Maybe I’m not a flower at all. Maybe I’m an imposter. You know, one time I read that there’s this type of bacteria that shapes itself like a flower in order to blend in to its surroundings. It survives by  killing and eating the real flowers around it. 

I’m lying. That doesn’t exist. I didn’t read that somewhere. I just like to pretend I did. 

How many times am I supposed to let the helping hands try? How many times should I hold my smile up with the tips of my petals? How many times should I sit on that windowsill, pretending to bask in the sun when I’m really trying to hold in a sneeze and stop my nose from running?

I think, possibly soon, that I’ll tell them. I’ll apologize, of course, but I’ll tell them that they’ll just have to let me wilt or cut out my roots and use my pot for another flower. A flower that won’t wilt, and if it does by chance, it perks up and can thank them for their help. A flower even brighter, prettier, stronger. 

I’ll drag my roots behind me and wave goodbye if they needed me to. I’d find some dark pot to sit in until I’m not just drooping; I’m dying. But at least then I won’t have to lie to those hands, and at least then I’ll know that I was right. 

Flowers that have allergies to the sun aren’t meant to grow. I have no choice but to wilt.