turning twenty two

Holy hell!!! Holy hell! Another year? When did this happen? ... somewhere between June and June, I suppose.

Oof, twenty-one, what a ride you've been - pandemic, breakup, internship, job, starting to see someone new, putting my job on hold for my bachelor's thesis - we've had everything, haven't we? I've fallen in love again, I am very close to losing a relative to illness, I'm waiting for my university to tell me whether or not I can start my Master's degree in October. One of my closest friends moved out of the flat we shared with another person last September, someone new moved in in October. Things have been shifting this past year, sometimes scraping walls and getting stuck, sand making the cog wheels slow down, but sometimes so smoothly and slowly I didn't even notice until I realised something had changed entirely.

Twenty-one also meant a shitton of growth, figuring out what I want and what I don't want, who I am amongst all of the things that go on around me, finding my place in the midst of the chaos. Stumbling on the way, a couple of times, falling hard and scraping my knees too, but whenever that happened, people were there to offer their hand, their advice, their ears to listen without judgement. I'm figuring out the person I'm supposed to be. I'm not entirely sure I completely know her yet, but I'm the closest to that I've ever been. The most important thing: thirteen year old me would be so proud if she saw who I have become and to be quite honest with you, that's all I'm asking for.

As for twenty-two - I refuse to expect great things. I know the good things I worked hard for are coming my way. I'll have another publication under my beld come October, I'll also have my Bachelor's degree by then. I'm risking my heart and I've never felt happier in a relationship - knowing all to well I cannot control what happens and I cannot know where we might be this time next year, but I also know I'm taking that risk willingly. I'm putting my heart on the line and whatever happens, I will learn from it. I will grow from it.

And with that, dear friends: I'll be blasting Taylor Swift's 22 as soon as the clock strikes midnight on the 18th, you can bet your asses on that.

turning twenty one

Fuck, what a weird year. Almost half of it eaten by a global pandemic, another big bit eaten by my own fear about academic success and path, a lot of it spent alone or feeling alone, a lot of it spent sad. Twenty was a dull year, a dark year compared to nineteen, which sparkles looking back at it now - I am aware that I tend to think that about the past a lot though. It never was as sparkling as I remember it. Twenty was a lot of growing pains, a lot of jumping into cold water just to realise it's a little deeper than anticipated, a little colder than I'd expected, and remembering, head under water, that I forgot to bring a towel. Sometimes, it was getting out of the water and seeing a friend waiting with one, too.

Twenty brought a lot of new friends (a lot, I say, because two people added to an inner circle is a lot) and twenty brought a big step career-wise. Twenty brought powering through my Master's application, jumping over my own shadow once or twice or ten times maybe, twenty brought a new rhythm in my work and in my life. Twenty brought a lot of time spent with family, too (thanks to said global pandemic and me, luckily, retreating home to my parents before any of us realised how bad the general situation is going to get).

I don't even feel like complaining about getting older this year (what? Liz deciding she doesn't want to bitch about getting old? What parallel universe are we in?), about the lines on my forehead and the creases next to my mouth, but that might be because time hasn't been passing normally. Days went by without anything changing but suddenly March had turned into June and here I sit, wondering what the hell happened while I blinked for a second too long.

I realise I haven't written much for the blog this past year (although I think 2016 was the only year I actually did do that, so I'm not sure if it's even important) but these yearly posts feel somewhat significant to me. A way to mark time passing, a way to mark how my voice changes, how I change. I'm just screaming into the void here, pretending (or desperately wanting to believe) that I'm more important than I am.

Here's a truth I learned at twenty: days just keep beginning and ending, no matter what happens. It's all so big and scary and it hurts so much, but no matter how bad it gets, the world keeps on turning. There's been so much shit going on in the world and it doesn't seem like it's getting any better, but I think it actually is. Because the world keeps turning. People keep learning. We keep fighting. Here's another truth I learned: the stories in my blood will boil until I get them out, so I might as well just do it even if it scares me more than anything.

The last birthday I was so unsure about what the future was hold was my 18th when I didn't know if the BA program I wanted would accept my application, when I didn't know where I would live in half a year, when I didn't know if I'd be able to find people who understood how my brain worked, and I'm almost there again. I don't know if I'll be able to do the MA I want. I don't know where I'll live by the end of the year. I don't know how my career will progress. What I do know though is that I have a safety net of loved ones that'll be there to catch me in case I fall. I'm pretty sure that's the most I could ask for anyways.
This is the fifth year I'm doing this, sitting down before my birthday and writing about the year past, and I've realised: isn't it ironic that someone who despises birthdays as much as I do writes about hers every year? I have decided a thing in March or April (I'm not sure when, because the pandemic made me lose all my sense of time): I will stop hating my birthday. Sounds hard, but isn't that hard to do, in theory at least. I just have to realise I'm making my life harder than it needs to be in order to change things like that. That's how I stopped hating it when people touched me - I decided it was much more exhausting to jerk back and keep explaining that no, I'd so much prefer if you didn't touch me right now than just starting to enjoy physical closeness - I'm such a hugger now (although considering the current gobal health crisis going back to the "Get the fuck away from me, if you touch me I'll rip your arm off"-stance I had at fourteen seems like a good plan). So I've decided I´'m not a birthday hater anymore. I might just keep ingoring it for a few more years.
The world is a weird place at the moment and the majority of this post was written before the police officers in Minneapolis murdered Geroge Floyd because of an allegedly forged check (the check was fine, by the way), before JKR decided once more to spew her hurt- and hateful transphobic bullshit onto her huge audience. The most important thing I've learnt this year, especially in the last few months is this: The fight is never over. It's never done. There's always more to do, especially coming from a place of privilege. In my position as a white, thin, able-bodied straight-passing cis woman in this world (and that's an awful lot of privilege if you add it up), it is my duty to fight for those who would be in danger if they fought. It is my duty to shut up and listen to and raise up the voices of people who don't tick every box on the privilege bingo. The fight isn't over. It has just begun.

Cheers, twenty. You were a lot of unexpected things. Here's to twenty one.

writer's prayer

Good God of words, give grace to me

I'm fighting with the words to be

I've failed to spin the net of dreams

I've lost my gift, or so it seems

forgive my prayers, I'm not worthy

I fear the muses have not heard me -

sorrow took away my words

and my poor heart, it bleeds, it hurts -

quiet now, oh child of mine

no longer can I hear you cry

you have the words, you have the gift

you simply have to clear the mist

face the fog and walk on steady

if you wait you won't be ready

sorrow cannot take your words from you

be brave, my child, and write on through

but my Lord, my Lord, please hear me

my desk, my pen, my paper – dreary!

My child, my child, just listen,

pick up the pen, let black ink glisten -

you don't know the pain, oh god -

that's hidden in the written word -

I swear, dear god, I cannot write,

most days I would just rather die!

I gave you words. I can't do more.

Just write like you have done before.

What follows? That is up to you.

If you don't believe, you cannot do.

No one else could write your tale.

There's only one way this could fail:

If you don't write it. That is all.

Your own choice – fly – or fall.

e.j.l. // 3.7.2019