I am 7. I am 7, standing next to the girl from two streets away. She's on her white men's cycle; well no- it's not really a men's cycle as much as it is unisex. But the bar on it is much higher than mine. I look down at my purple bicycle, and the yellow wedding-gift-bag filled with music class books in the basket. She's a pretty girl, in a cool way. I listen curiously as she talks about some famous singer. Her chunky black watch and the slit in her eyebrow fascinate me. She's older, more popular. I don't think much of these things. Not when I am 7.
I am 9, there is not much to the world. There's music class, the cycle, my secret urge to play with dolls but gosh isn't that childish, or girlish, whichever is worse to a 9 year old. The most wondrous thing is the park 3 streets away. Maybe mum will let me go there alone some day; maybe I'll sneak out on my own. I get giddy at the thought of this miscreancy. This is the extent of my rebellion.
There is a boy at school. He is not the best-looking, but I think he is SO handsome. His shape would remind one of a bouncy ball you'd beg your father to buy at the beach. He's funny. I giggle when he repeats cheesy lines out of the latest movies.
I am 14, I have not been more sick and tired. There is nothing to this world. Just an engulfing overwhelming emptiness. I come home, my head feels heavy and my arms weak. I cry for the third time of the day. First in the morning; my head inside a bucket of cold water. Second in the school bathroom stalls. And now. Sitting in the blind spot between two cupboards. I have perfected the art of sobbing without sound. When my friends come to my class, I smile. I laugh. It gets tiring. At home, I think of girls who are prettier than me. They are much more talented than I. The only logical consequence of this is that I save a stack of memes about mental illnesses until my eyes feel like they have been set on fire. The phone screen goes dark; I burn.
All the depressing shit I consume makes things worse. I tumble further down the stupid pit. I have no idea why; I am only 14.
I am 16. I see a counselor twice a week. This comes from having a mental breakdown in front of my mum. I didn't mean to, but I did. Besides, It was getting impossible to hide and I was irritating people - acting all weird.
The lady is nice. She asks me questions. I cry sometimes. I forgot how to do that in the middle there. I would just get a lump in my chest; a throbbing headache at most. Now I cry. There's nothing to be ashamed of, it's alright, I expect her to say. Nope, nothing. She plainly stares, waiting for me to complete my sentences. I like this so much better than anything else she could do. It makes me feel there is nothing extraordinary happening. I am crying. I will stop at one point and I will move to the next word. This is also somewhat the gist of what I'm learning from her.
She says one day, "You are a tiny speck of dust in this universe, you will inevitably die; nothing you do matters in the grand scale of things." I would've hugged the woman if I could through a Zoom meeting.
I am 18. I am confused. Neither joy nor grief comes in full flow like it used to before. Living feels like going on stage with no lines and no cues, to an audience of my five innocent friends. The world seems mild and I have no idea what part to play. I choose a career out of the catalog they gave at school. It says law and I think, Law it is.
This is so beautiful sam