ode

happy new years

One day, I looked in the mirror and thought I looked older. My cheeks lost some of its youthful roundness, and the dark circles under my eyes were more pronounced. Another day, I noticed my knees feel tight whenever I step out the shower, and if I move my hips a certain way, I will regret it for the next three days. Some nights, I lay in bed worrying that the knee I partially dislocated four years ago will pop out its socket, leaving my leg twisted like a broken doll. Other nights, I wonder if I will ever become legible enough for my loved ones, or if certain parts are simply meant to be understood by some and not all.

I am not a person half of the time. I am held up by blood and sinew and muscles on the best days and a sense of obligation to my younger self on the worst days. I know I have to eat/drink water/take my medication/take out the trash/do laundry/go to therapy/apply to jobs so I can be able to live and disappear if I want (and some days, I really do for the biggest and smallest of reasons) and own a cat who cares and doesn’t care for me. I know I need to do all this, even when I feel my guts are spilling out. I gather my insides and stich myself back together despite not knowing how to sew.

I wonder what my younger self would think of me. I saw her in a dream three nights ago and started to cry. She wouldn’t understand why I don’t want my breasts all the time, why it doesn’t bother me as much when people can’t figure out if I am a girl or not. I know she wanted to be beautiful like her mother, be pretty like the women she would see on television and in the magazines her father clumsily hid in drawers. Such expectations she would carry into middle school where curves made her inexplicably fat and inappropriate and in high school where her breasts were too large but did not sit high enough and her chest has so much empty space but it is great that she has an ass, although her shaved head and dark marks covering her face means she couldn’t be pretty like her friends or the white girls with little to no personality.

Maybe she would be confused albeit supportive me. Maybe she would be more concerned about why I am not employed yet, why I am not in a relationship, why I am surrounded by strangers and not our best friends from elementary school and high school. Maybe it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes, life doesn’t feel real. It is a relief and a burden.

I fell out of and back in love with writing. I don’t remember when I became so passive, so fearful of what I had to say. If I had something to say, wouldn’t I be able to write it? What if I had nothing to say at all? When I was younger, I would write too much. Too many run-on sentences. Not enough proofreading. I don’t think that has changed, but at least I would write without fear of misstep. I still feel strange knowing people have read my writing, even more so when they say I am a good writer. At best, I feel like a decent one. At worst, I don’t write.

What brings me joy now is not the same as when I was a child. When I was 23, I discovered joy in a perfectly halved red onion. When I was 22, I suddenly couldn’t imagine a future without a cat waking me up for cuddles. When I was 21, bees swarmed me on my way to buy my first legal bottle of wine, but I did not get stung. When I was 20, a quiet campus meant I had the whole world to myself. New joys brings new fears of not being able to afford food, never having a quiet companion, never being seen as a safe landing by small creatures again.

Fear grows alongside you, especially when you love something. It is funny, though, that when you are a child, you are more likely to fear not being able to try something new. You throw a tantrum, kick, cry, and scream, even if whatever you want is temporary joy, dangerous, and has the potential to ruin you. You still want to do it because of the chance that maybe, just maybe, something good will come out of it. And even if it isn’t the best, it is yours, and no one can take that away from you.

I don’t remember when my memory of my younger self shifted from being scared to laughing. In some deep crevice of my soul, she is alive and laughing at how silly everything is. Gender is silly. I am not a girl or a woman, just an entity known as Layla. My face is an astounding amalgamation of my mother/father/brother/mother. I was created to fix and solve and mend something they didn’t break in the first place. They find it hilarious that something that I believed defined me for so long is an ache instead of an open wound. Nothing and everything matters. I can still feel like a bad granddaughter/niece/sister/daughter when I am none of those thing, but those titles were bestowed upon me so I must carry them. I want to be unknown and known and unknown again. I want to be adorned and adored and loved and loved and loved. My love is too thin and thick and not enough. It is easier for me to love one day at a time instead of promising my heart to an unknown future. I love sleeping and watching the sun rise. I love my bed. They wonder why I used to imagine sharing my twin bed with someone but now I hate the thought of being unable to sleep in a bed with space for two. Maybe I just like myself too much after so many years of absence.

One day, I looked in the mirror and saw my entire self. There was laughter.