Counting Down and Other Things From the Past Week

Turning twenty and other terrors

The word “the” is said to be the most commonly used term in the English language. The word “love” tops the list as the most used expression in song. “Why” takes over a solid seventy percent of every conversation made with children under six. And the phrase “I’m turning twenty” is the most common, trite, phrase in all my writing.

I’m turning twenty soon… And it’s a countdown. A race to some unspoken finish line. A ticking time bomb. A milestone I fear more than almost anything else. I’m turning twenty soon and — despite what I preach to others about the importance of being content with oneself — I thought I would be something, somebody, by now. That I would feel less alone in crowded rooms. I’m turning twenty soon and I have reached the point where intelligence has shifted to common sense, where innocence has translated to naivete. I’m turning twenty soon and I’m no longer the youngest person in every room I walk into, no longer deemed impressive for simply just showing up. People have caught up to me, overtaken me at every skill I claimed as my own. I’m turning twenty soon and I’ve been so, so scared. Scared to face the fact that I’m woman, not girl. Adult, not child. That I’m here, the destination, not somebody — some vision — to work myself up to be.

This fear permeated every conversation, every sentence, every piece of prose or poem. There was urgency — to use the time I had and live. To quickly cultivate a repertoire of stories from my youth to tell my children. To simultaneously grow up and be someone others are proud of. To do and be everything and anything all at once. It was staying out on Fridays till 4am, amidst crowds and flashing lights. Starting Saturdays early, walks and yoga pants at eight in the morning. Spending Sundays in the library and Thursdays at any club. Never allowing myself to be either idle or alone, then subsequently developing a phobia of both. My fear prompted movement, the movement resulted in exhaustion.

It’s my birthday… And I’m twenty. So today, I took life slow. I still don’t know how I feel about it all, but I’m here. I’m twenty. I’m not somebody — I’m me. And I made it.

I’m running out of words, because all my words, my stories, were squeezed out of me by means of desperation. I’m twenty and — for once — my head is silent. What now?

I don’t have an answer. But I’m far less afraid, cautiously excited, to find out.

Things that made me smile this week: