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chiffonfawn · 1 year

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You Age, Whether You Like It Or Not

September 9th 2023

My birthdays always come off as bittersweet to me. Today is my nineteenth. To put it simply: I don't feel like I've done anything monumental enough to be one year away from my twenties. Nowhere is it written in the stars that you have to have something monumental accomplished by the time you're an adult- it's just a standard that I've set up to inevitably fail to reach. I'm nineteen. I've been breathing and laughing and crying for nineteen years. I am currently sitting on a bench at my favorite park that is located a few blocks away from my house that I find myself at often. Whether it be to meditate, clear my mind, or just walk down to to get in some exercise. Of course, at the moment, I'm here for reflective reasons. I need a minute. I just thought to myself- "I am nineteen years old." Nineteen feels like too much. Reading the number pierces my eyes. How have I managed to live for this long? It is all so confusing. This is the first birthday that has caught me off guard, that has hit me with the harsh reality that time is a green light that never turns red. Cars just speed through it with no destination. There is this bird that has been sitting on the top of the gazebo since I approached the park. That was about twenty-ish minutes ago, and it's still sitting up there. I wonder what it is waiting for. A call? A sign? Maybe something great. I'm waiting for something great too, bird.

Ever since 14 I've spent my birthdays mourning. I've spent them with a bitter taste in my mouth and my middle finger stuck up to where everyone can see it and mock my vulgarity. Out of the 365 (or 366) days that make up a year, my birthday has always been the day that I feel the least loved, like, people always deem your birthday as the day you deserve to be, or are supposed to be, shown the most love, but I've been shown more love on, say a random Thursday in May, than any birthday I've ever had. It's like, everyone knows it's my birthday, but they don't let that thought leave their mind. I'm not important enough for them to speak their wishes, whether genuine or not, into existence.

Back to the mourning, I always mourn the version of myself I leave behind. I mourn the skin I shed although it is a component of my evolution. I can no longer fit into the sweater I once wore for days on end, drenched in my scent and presence. In this case, eighteen year old me. I'm not eighteen anymore. So where did she go? Seventeen year old me? Sixteen year old me?

For the last few years, what I feel is that every birthday I'm introduced to a new version of myself that I'm going to watch grow and live alongside for the next year. I get attached to that girl, I get attached to my new identity. "I'm fifteen, I'm sixteen, I'm seventeen, etc." Then once the clock strikes midnight on September 9th, she's gone and replaced with someone I don't know yet. I'll eventually get used to her, but her predecessor suddenly vanished mid-air. It takes me by surprise although I know it is coming. Once the first of September hits I know I don't have much time.

The person I am today is made up of all the places I have been, all the ages I have been. I am thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen year old me bundled up into one lost and confused young woman. I've just matured, grown, added another year under my belt. Who knows how many I have left.

Last night I felt the need to clean my room so eighteen year old me could go out on a clean state. Eighteen was more-so on the calmer side of these years. Let's hope nineteen follows the path of a lack of catastrophe.

I took my first deep breath of the day, staring down at the saturated green grass, it is hugging my right foot. I would lie down in it, but I don't know what's in there plus we have a snake problem in my neighborhood. This is the final year of my teenage girlhood. This is it. All I have known for the last seven years of my life. I'm not ready for my twenties. I've done nothing, as I've mentioned, to where I can consider myself nearing that age. I've barely done anything in my life but observe the world around me. Write about it, cry about it, dream about it. Have I even truly lived? Taken it all in? We're almost halfway through this disastrous decade. My name is still unknown and my ideas inhabit scattered sheets of loose leaf notebook paper.

I wonder what these birds chirping are saying to one another. And these cicadas. What qualifies as monumental in bird life? They have less opportunity than humans, so it shouldn't be too broad of an aspect. That bird is still sitting on top of the gazebo. It might leave when I leave. I'd take that as symbolism. For what exactly? I'm unsure. I typically dissect things and create my own metaphors out of pure delusion. I'll figure something out.

I don't know why this birthday is so startling to me. The hourglass is beginning to speed up. Why does it seem as if the minutes are ticking by faster? I just turned my calendar to September. By the time I even open my mouth it'll be November.

Sitting at this park has always been cathartic. Hardly anyone ever comes here, despite there being two houses and a subdivision within a close walking distance. The only time I ever encountered others frolicking around over here was when I came here to take my prom pictures back in April. It was a father, daughter, and their dog. The guy I went with joked that he could 1v1 the dog in a fight. We don't talk anymore.

If there's anything that has at least curved a slight smile on my face today, it's been my friend, Carlos. He is typically the first person who texts me happy birthday, or acknowledges it. Frankly, I feel like he's the only one who remembers the sole date: 9/9. It isn't hard to remember, I tell people, the month and the date are the same number. They still forget. Maybe it's just because I've always had a knack for remembering dates that it's hard for me to process the fact it's not everyone's strong suit.

Carlos means the world to me. I always wake up on the wrong side of the bed on my birthdays. I turned on my phone, vacant of any birthday wishes, and felt my mouth curve downwards. Then he texted me, like, right then and there, and it felt like the sun was shining right onto my skin- warm, captivating, bright, hopeful. Every time I've been feeling down today, I think about him and I suddenly don't see a problem with getting older as long as he's here with me. He's older than I am, so he honestly has it worse, haha. Just kidding if you see this, Carlos. I love you.

A little yellow butterfly just approached a strand of grass right beside me. It's the shade of yellow like, a sticky note. It's petite, almost moth-like. Butterflies are symbolic of optimism to me, of good fortune. The butterfly perched on the grass for a moment and then fluttered away, observing the nature around itself. Do butterflies have emotions? Are they captivated by nature's beauty? Do they know that they're beautiful? I love butterflies. It's over by the willow trees now.

My wish is that by the time I turn twenty that I will have made some sort of impact on this path I thread, or have something created that I feel is worthwhile. There are things I strive to complete, to see soar. Things I don't know how to set free. Maybe I'll find out. Maybe I'll know in 365 days.

I'll try not to stress about my age. By tomorrow I won't care, but while the spotlight shines on me, while the calendar reads September 9th, it's strenuous and nauseating. While I was getting ready this morning I looked into the mirror and could see the age piling up like dirt on my face. People always tell me I look way younger than I am, and I agree, but today...I just looked so...forlorn, as if I were harvested and hollowed. I didn't recognize myself. It could be a factor of my face being inflamed currently, who knows. I'll probably feel like myself again in a few weeks.

In all honestly, nothing much has changed. I'm still in the same skin, wearing the same clothes I've been wearing, listening to the same music I've been listening to, and still feeling tired. I feel better about myself than I did a year ago. I can look at my body without feeling as insecure. My skin shines in a way I don't think it has...ever. I'm not holding as many grudges, I feel at peace with myself, in a way, not in the way that I feel incomplete and unaccomplished, but like, with my teenage years. I feel at peace with the encounters and incidents I've faced.

Well the clouds will still turn gray and then white again. The earth will still spin around on it's axis. The bird is still sitting on top of the gazebo. We're both just going to keep on living until God calls us home, who knows when. In the meantime, I'll get to experience. I'll get to watch my 5-year old cousin grow and compose new songs on the piano. I'll get to wear new shoes and pick out fruit at the grocery store.

If I did anything monumental this past year, I grew. That's pretty important. Maybe I have just been impacting myself more than others. I want that to change.

Here's to nineteen,

Avery

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