my friend,
I’ve missed you. I hope you’re doing well.
any time I start another session on inner-child work in therapy, I think of Sandra Cisnero’s short story, “Eleven,”
“What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven. Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay.”
two months ago, I visited myself at sixteen. we sat on the floor and I answered her questions; invited her to my house to blast music as loud as she liked, joined her in belting each chorus. last week, I visited myself on the cusp of 5th grade. she came down the stairs and walked into my arms; I felt her tiny frame turn into mine.
tonight, I take my dog for a walk and wonder how old I’m feeling. I find a mirror tilted towards the sky and imagine it’s a portal. I feel too sad and stubborn to eat. I go for runs in the morning and always feel better sprinting away than wandering back; even if it means a chance to catch my breath, even if it means the hard part is over and there’s coffee waiting in the kitchen.
there are birthday cards and poorly cut pictures I printed off and hung with sticky tape beside my bed. I’ve been keeping my door closed. the dentist asks me when was my last check-up, and I shrink so small, a nurse apologizes for not grabbing the booster seat. maybe I’m 6 years old in my needing; 17 in my want to be alone. the paradox of every coming feeling: please come here, but not too close.
and then, when I am a present self again, I’m still 27, spending my lunch hour curled into bed, citing the weather’s too cold. my eyelashes flutter loud against my sheets and I wonder where the self that is coming to comfort me is now. what are we doing from there? how long can she stay? where will I be when I am strong enough again to tell me I can put on a brave face; that I wouldn’t believe what happens next. what questions should I have to ask her? how long will the wait be until I can revisit me with any better wisdom than the haze I’m feeling now?
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
venmo: schuylerpeck
this post feels so fated. today's my twentieth birthday & these past few weeks i've felt crushed by all these different versions of myself, lived and expected. this made me feel a wee bit more relieved & understood. thank you as always for your beautiful & timely words
Schuyler,
Yet another gem - putting the abstract, indescribable feelings into poetically-poured, concrete words seems to be your specialty.
I think about the 'being different ages whilst being my current age' paradox a lot (though I didn't realise it till right this moment). especially since entering into adulthood a few years ago. The juxtaposition between the expectation of having to fulfill 'adult responsibilities', all the while wanting to curl up and ignore everything. I'd rather throw myself into a digital bliss of endless, 15-year-old-me, tumblr scrolling, or 19-year-old-me kdrama binging. That's what I think when I'm confronted head on, like a bull in a ring, with life as an adult.
Yes, this is a great topic. Thanks for unearthing it from the depths of my unconscious into the forefront of my mind.