No matter how you shake it, it happens to all of us: we grow older. As our age changes, so does our perspective. This week, we’re asking you to take a look at those little numbers that often mean so much.
I span that across two years because of the timing of this reasoning. My birthday falls in mid-December, and in October of 2010, just two months before my birthday, my younger brother committed suicide and destroyed the status quo of my life. Suddenly I spiraled into a pit of blackness impossible through which to see, and I lost hold of normality. I suddenly questioned everything, hated everything, loved little. And yet, being the sister of a boy who ended his own life put me in a strange position: I was broken, and yet I felt so bad for our friends that I stood around comforting others instead of allowing them to comfort me.
That was the year I learned what true pain felt like, when I learned that hearts may not break in the traditional sense, but heartache is far from purely metaphor. That was the year that I grew several inches more cynical, because I watched the rest of the world carry on around me as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed, as if there wasn’t a hole ripped out of my life and it didn’t matter.
18 was the age at which I discovered physical contact/interaction with boys, and that it was enough for me to go on dates with anyone who called me pretty.
The year I started college and realized there was so much more to education than the shit I had to deal with in high school, and learned that people really could like me for who I am.