I can’t get out of my own head when I want to write sometimes. The teacher’s pet in me feels this compulsive need to appeal to somebody else, to sound smarter than I am, to be more compelling. We all want people to want to listen to what we have to say so we can convince ourselves they perceive us in the way we badly want to see ourselves. I’m just one of those people. You’d think it fades away like your teen years do so that before you know it, you’re into your early twenties and certain things that were so vital in your previous decade are subtly forgotten in this one. Doesn’t happen that way.
The day I turned 13 years old it’s like I was bitten by this mosquito with the sharpest pinch that embedded a lifetime of insecurity and subtle, grainy, embarrassing discomfort that feels like a slight but unquenchable thirst. And it has never gone away because it hacks your system.
I just turned 30 two weeks ago and one of the last things a friend said to me when dropping me off at the airport (to go see my boyfriend who was taking me on a birthday trip) was to remember that it is Thirty, flirty, and thriving. Retrospectively, and as I write this, it is kind of a basic white girl tragedy that you watch a movie about a 13 year old wishing she could be 30 and have all the confidences and freedoms that come with it only to realize you are a 30 year old experiencing the perpetual discomfort of being a 13 year old girl.
Do you ever feel x going on 13 again? Why?