Twenty-Seven

 Last Thursday in my Sociology 101 class, our teacher read us a story that really pierced my heart. The title was "Eleven" and if you'd like to read the pdf of it, here is the link.

This story explained a lot of my childhood feelings and as I was listening, I knew I could've written the exact same story.

And so I decided I would.


Seventeen. It was supposed to be an amazing birthday.
I woke up that day and grinned from ear to ear as I got ready and headed off to school.
Seventeen. The day I was supposed to be older and wiser, braver and happier.
I wanted life to change that day. I wanted to start over and become the person who was fighting to get out.
Seventeen. The day I came home from school and had a huge fight with my parents. The day I felt the opposite of brave and happy. The day I considered that death might be better than life because life hurt too much.
Seventeen. The day I didn't know if we would be celebrating at all. As the tears poured down my cheeks, I hugged my pillow and wanted to be eighteen...or maybe five. But not seventeen.
Seventeen. The day we made up long enough for dinner at the restaurant of my choosing. It was the day I tried steak for the first time and fell in love with it, if it's possible to fall in love with food.

But when I laid down to go to sleep that night, I was confused. Because seventeen didn't change anything about me. In fact,  a lot of my reactions from that day had come from a younger me.

Someone must've forgotten to explain that when I was seventeen, I was also three. I didn't lose that age just because a new one started.

So sometimes when I'm twenty-seven, I can hear the thirteen year old who is still trying to figure out who she is. Sometimes when I'm twenty-seven and I realize how painful divorce is, I can feel five year old me screaming as I hug my pillow really tight.
I am not just twenty-seven. 

I am twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one.

So when my eyes are burning from the tears trying to break free and I throw a fit in my room, it really is ok. Because along with being twenty-seven, I am also two. 

 When I am in need of extra attention and I feel stupid for wanting that, I try to realize that it's ok. Because along with being twenty-seven, I'm also nine.

 When someone hurts my feelings and my first response is to lash out in anger, it doesn't make me any less mature than the twenty-seven year old that I am. It just proves that along with being twenty-seven, I am also eleven. 

 This year, part of my healing is learning to break away from the fear. Because the fear contradicts my genuine emotions. When trauma set in, I stopped crying in front of others---because to me, crying is among the most vulnerable of reactions and it's scary. It's scary to feel like you're not in control of the water dripping from your eyes and the quiver in your bottom lip.

 But I don't want to be afraid of the "younger than age twenty-six" me who was able to cry and trust that she could show her feelings in front of other human beings.

I want to embrace five year old me who used to cry because her knee got scraped. And ten year old me who used to cry because her friends weren't being very nice. And sixteen year old me who used to cry because she just wanted a boy to notice her. And twenty-six year old me who was found sobbing on her friend's shoulder one afternoon in late August of 2013.

Emotions are healthy. 

Emotions are teachers and healers.

So today I am twenty-seven. But I am also twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one.
And that is never going to change.