One day you wake up and you are 25. You are not the same girl that forced her kid brother to drink muddy water by calling it chocolate milk.
You don’t still play with Barbies. You pay bills. You (mostly) cook your own meals. You come home to an empty apartment and sleep alone at night.
And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.
I look at the shell of all of my life’s circumstances, and the Frankenstein’s monster that life was setting me up to be. The tragedies that I have known could have padded me into being a tragedy that everyone pities and siliently accepts.
I used to loathe a lot about my current situation. I used to scream into the sky about the location that I have found myself. I used to define my worth, poorly, by the job that I have. I used to beat myself up because I wasn’t this idealized version of myself.
But I am really happy. I have people that love me even though some parts of me are undeniably broken. I scream quirky things when I run out of audible ammo. And people stare past my vacant, glazed over eyes in order to pick apart the root issues.
My heart cannot take all of the love that I have recently grown into. I do believe that I have had an emotional growth spurt. And nothing hurts and everything is going to be okay somehow.