When I was 16/17, I thought that when I was a few years older, at university, I'd worry less about the things that were giving me crippling anxiety. At 16/17 I thought my older self would be braver, less troubled and her opportunities would be broadened. I thought getting older meant getting better. I thought it meant that everything that was awkward and cringe-worthy would disappear and I would forget it all. It wouldn't matter. None of it would matter. And that's what people say isn't it-'you'll look back on this period in your life and think you were crazy, there was nothing to worry about. Trust me, it gets better'.
In some ways it's true. If I could go back I would tell my 16 year old self that things get easier. They aren't less painful but they get easier. The things I worried about back then, eventually dwindled. But life doesn't allow the blips to disappear into a void. The bloody blips keep returning. And I look back at my younger self and think, crap, that's where everything began. Emotions and feelings you thought had disappeared merely buried themselves like ants that scuttle away back under their rock when they see a shadow loom above. Events I thought would stay hidden beneath those rocks began to creep out in different forms and startle me. I did not expect the past to return. And I most certainly did not expect the past to return during a time when I was supposed to be getting older, wiser and more mature.
I suppose I am realising more and more that growing up means constantly returning to the beginning. As I move forwards I look backwards and that makes it harder to keep moving. I keep getting stuck as I remember my younger self who in many ways I envy and miss. I feel so naive and I wish I was 16 again so people could expect that of me. On the days I remember specific past versions of myself I grow melancholic and deeply sad. I want so badly to hug my past self because my present self knows how difficult the past was. My present self knows that all those experiences left residual mess behind and that the present self is still cleaning up the debris. It seems as though that is what growing up is all about- coming to terms with the past and cleaning it up, time after time.
All I wish is that these times grow fewer. I hope that I'm not still cleaning up my old mess. I hope that I learn to lift the rock and let the ants scuttle free. I hope that I give myself room to make new mess.
But until then I am still cleaning, still re-organising and still struggling to make the steps forward.
At least I am trying.
x
T
