I’ve been avoiding this post.
No. I’ve been waiting to feel depressed to write it.
It’s common knowledge on this blog that my birthday is in the month of August. Whether you know or not that it’s on the 15th is not important but at least now it’s said.
Once my birthday is passed I make myself write about what it was like to be a certain age. Writing about how it was to be 18 through the eyes of a twisted heart seems boring now but it’s tradition. So I HAVE to do it.
Shit.. I just dropped a whole bunch of hot candle wax on my desk. I don’t even know where I’m going with this post. I always write extemporaneously here. Gosh, I’m so petulant. In between every sentence that I write I bury my face in my face because what’s the fucking point.
I will admit that this year has been a breaking point, an upheaval in me. I got to genuinely be happy and yet I also got to be intensely sad.
So I finally cut myself. Mutilation was this year’s accomplishment. I was proud that I had finally done it. Foolish of me right?
Shit… More posters are falling from the walls. This night is working against me.
I don’t associate being 18 with the year that you learn more about being independent and yourself and how to become someone whole and new without the parents’ censorship. That’s what being 18 was for me but it had nothing to do with that, it had to do with me going to study alone in a country I had never lived in. Some at 18 still have their mothers do their dishes because apparently, they can’t do it themselves. 18 is being more free, that I agree with. We are considered adults by the state but are we really in our head and heart?
I can tell you the consequences and the marks that being happy has left this year just from looking around in my room.
Half of my closet is black and the other half is pink. Pink is my happy color I suppose. It’s something new that I wear. Something that gets to shine.
I have songs I can dance to on my phone. Once upon a time, I used to only have songs that were appropriate to play during funerals.
Finally, I have more friends and more contacts on my phone, in fact, they multiplied by three this year.
There has always been one thing in common in all of these post-birthdays posts and it’s that I always say “I’ll miss being 16” or “I’ll never forget what it was to be 17” but screw being 18 for the better and for the worse. I won’t miss it but I didn’t hate it BUT I’m not gonna be all nostalgically sentimental about it.
Year 19 is gonna be my salvation I swear. I feel it.