When one thinks of the word "twenties," there is an automatic glimmer behind the word.
The 1920s: a period full of partying, in the grandest way. Champagne, fringe, glitter, freedom, a drunkenness, inebriation from not only alcohol, but life.
Being in your 20s: 21, a graduation to a new kind of adulthood. The fun kind, the free kind, the independent kind. The same drunkenness, but legal, earned, and anticipated for quite some time. An end to the plan we have followed since we were 3, again, freedom. The next step. And just, fun, like all the movies and TV shows make it seem.
No one talks about growing pains. They sound fake, like a punchline to a teen drama, or fictional coming-of-age.
They are real. They are sad. They are depressing. And I am fully aware those are the same word.
It seems there has always been a coverup for them. Before social media, no one talked about them. After social media, no one dared to make it seem like they were struggling after they graduated high school. Sure, we all have our fun here and there. Of course we do, we are at the age all of our elders tell us they wish they were still at, the age they tell us to "enjoy while it lasts." But I'm sure they, like we might at some point, erased the doom they felt as they started to feel truly lost in world they were put in.
If my 20s were going how I wanted, it would look something like this: I would be living in my New York apartment, with my sweet boyfriend I fell in love with 3 years ago in the beach towns I grew up in. I would have a couple internships under my belt, pursuing my career in fashion and starting the see the world of opportunities in front of me. I may have already worked with some famous names on my mental list of idols I'm destined to meet. I would be on the brink of graduating from my small school in New York, getting a jumpstart on the job market before my peers. My apartment would be decorated with everything I absolutely adored. Colorful, weird trinkets. I would have developed my personal style to the point where I could close my eyes and pick random items and never look bad. I could come home to my two story yellow house on the street corner everyone knew and escape my bustling city life to relax in the suburbs. The beach would be five minutes away whenever I needed it. My parents would greet me with their beaming faces whenever I would walk in the door with my bags. I would've had my 21 summer here, went away for my last four months of school, and then go where ever the wind took me.
That was how it was supposed to go. And if you've read this far, you obviously know that is the complete opposite of what happened.
A few things stayed the same: I don't know how, but I am still graduating college in a few months. Except I have earned a large portion of that degree on the computer. I love the same person I did when I had this plan formulated and did not know that it would never come to fruition. That's about it though.
This is my third week in a row getting a q-tip shoved up my nose (I actually did it myself this time). A good amount of people I know have been sick. I feel like I've been sick since July. My throat has hurt since I left that two story yellow house. I could never quite pinpoint what is was. Allergies, was the excuse I went with.
I've had that same q-tip shoved up my nose more times than I could count on both hands. There are times that it is more of a headache to do that than others. I have a headache most days now.
I live out of a bag. A big pink Vera Bradley duffel bag my cousin once shipped to me from Colorado for my birthday (thanks Eileen). I have no other bag big enough to live out of for a whole week as I move from my mom's condo, my boyfriend's house, and my dad's condo.
My permanent address should be my 2004 Toyota Avalon. I have decorated with zebra print seats and fuzzy dice and surf wax air fresheners to make it feel like home.
The only place where my life is how it was is upon my neck, on my fingers, my ankle, and in my nose and ears. A golden horn hangs from my neck: my mother. A diamond encrusted bee just beneath it: the love of my life. A gold claddagh on my right ring finger, crown up: my father (his late sister, my godmother). A black onyx on my left: my Oma, my mother mother, who lost a fight to the thing that sent me home my sophomore year of college and makes me get q-tips shoved up my nose. A gold chain around my ankle, a sparkling orb hanging from it: my parents, a high school graduation gift. A pair of tiny gold hoops: another gift from the collective that was the people that raised me. A gold hoop through my nose and two diamond studs above the aforementioned: the vim and vigor of a young person being bold, defiant, and independent for the first time.
It is the only place where everything is the same as it was, where everything is together. I carry these with me everyday. I also carry with me the pains of my growth everyday. The pain that things are changing faster than I want them to. The pain that things are changing at all.
This is the pain burned on sight the second we can let go of it. Or maybe it doesn't work like that, we don't know, no one talks about it. And while I would love to be enjoying my twenties like they have been advertised to me, I am being crushed by the pressure of not surmounting to those expectations.
I have never felt so isolated. Apparently, so has everyone else:
