I don’t know about you, but I’m (probably not) feeling 22

Posted on November 13, 2015

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Technically I’m still a few months away from turning 22, but I guess it doesn’t really make that much of a difference. As with everything else.

This age is supposed to be my prime. I’m supposed to be that shiny, happy grown-up who has finally figured herself out. I’m supposed to finally blossom, to finally take those baby steps towards furthering my career. I’m supposed to realize my potential by this time, and act accordingly. I’m supposed to have the time of my life with my friends. I’m supposed to be caught up in the greatest love that ever existed. If I had already, I’m supposed to be experienced and moving on by this time.

None of that is happening to me.

I’m either a terrible young adult, or nobody ever talks about how this stage fucks everyone up. They talk about the high that youthfulness brings, they talk about late nights and cheap wine and parties and road trips and making out and counting stars. They talk about living fast and dying young. They talk about fast cars and fancy suits and cheesy TV pairings. They talk about pop culture which feeds on their spirit, eventually spitting it back to them. They talk about delirium. They talk about escapism. They talk about love.

They talk about lies.

They don’t talk about the struggle between adolescence and adulthood. They don’t talk about the pain of disillusionment. They don’t talk about the struggle between wanting independence and needing the warmth of mom’s hug. They don’t talk about being both completely clueless and jaded about the world at the same time. They don’t talk about wanting to die from feeling so many things all at once. They don’t talk about the desire to down bottle after bottle of liquor to take in the illusion of feeling okay. They don’t talk about lying on the floor crying until 4 AM for an insurmountable number of reasons, or for no reason at all. They don’t talk about how cutting off people can be met with either indifference or excruciating pain. They don’t talk about the pain of falling in love. They don’t talk about being scared shitless of the future. They don’t talk about the pain of staying silent even though they have been used to it all their lives. They don’t talk about the fear of being so invested in something that was never worth it in the first place. They don’t talk about never being good enough. They don’t talk about the fear of not living enough. They don’t talk about the isolation it brings. They don’t talk about the fear of being too late.

They don’t talk about how much it hurts.

This is the start of my 20’s. It isn’t a walk in the park. It’s the end of the party where everyone is wasted and melancholic, crippled with uncertainty. Tomorrow, everyone will have to put on their fake happy faces and be adults again. Or try to be adults again.

Because scared as we are of growing up, it’s even scarier to stay in this place forever.

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