Growing up is not fun at all. 0/10, would not recommend. Hormones and hair. Our skin stretches and we learn about things like calories and basal metabolic rates and our hands expand like five-point balloons. But we drop things as if we're covered in butter. Oily. Slick. Slipping away.
If we are mosaics of memories and experiences, of secrets shared in slumber parties and reactions to trauma -- if this can be considered a formal definition of what is an I, then someone please give me a Do Not Resuscitate form and a noose, right this instant. Oh please. I'm afraid I was born without webbed fingers and the spaces between my phalanges are wide enough for everything to fall through. It's not my fault! It's genetics, it's preconditioning, it's all that goddamn butter. If our significance is found in a collection of itty bitties, then I am rapidly devaluing.
A list of what I've lost: 20/20 vision, the stuffed animals and beyblades and Kaoru doll that slept next to me for years, the ability to eat, trees to climb, years with family members (because of miles), cellphones, contests, my patience, the ability to touch people without wanting to claw my way out of my own skin, baby teeth, parents as heroes, safety nets, pets, earrings, potential, pieces of my front teeth, skin, blood, hair, bone, tears and sweat, feeling in my feet, a home, siblings and most importantly my mind (though until the autopsy, who can really say if I've lost it all).
I do not like it. I do not like how I am not a puzzle incomplete. I do not like how I may have gained inches and pounds and knowledge and responsibilities, but I am still less of a me, compared. I have been, I say this indignantly, the realization thump-thump-thumping my heart against my brittle ribs like war drums, oh dear oh no I have been distilled. People can be complex, yes, but not at 2 in the morning when all the lights are off except for the backlights of a screen. This is when things come out to play. Not ghosts, but real live distilled grown-up people. And without my decorative armor, my bits and pieces, my hoard of memories and scents and pieces of paper, I am just. Perhaps that's why I can't write in only one journal anymore, why I have dozens of gorgeously bound blank pages hiding in stacks of novels I haven't read yet. There is no strength in these arms to lift a pen to a specific page, no, no more, just let it fall on any old paper. I give up this silly fight. Perhaps that's why I find it so hard to keep a blog, a record of myself and my life and my breaths as they circle between my lungs and the world. It's no easy task to pin something down with words and ink, and the incredible shrinking act of my who-ness doesn't help. It's hard to write about my life as if this is the 'during', the 'middle of'. Not when I don't see now as a single chapter of my book. Oh but that doesn't mean I see me as a book. I don't live a life worth writing down. I don't live at all -- I walk and breathe and go to class, oh isn't that sad? But I am a grown-up little child now with an allowance and everything. This is how I will spend my time.