What’s the big whoop about turning eighteen? Birthdays are fun, of course, don’t get me wrong, but why is eighteen seen as the “golden age” to be?

In my family, you get a cake and some presents, but that’s it. Just because you’re eighteen doesn’t mean you’re an adult, like so many other people seem to think. You don’t get to go out by yourself, you don’t get to party or hang out with friends on the weekends, you don’t get any privacy you’re already granted (which isn’t very much - I have to make sure to clean out my phone for next week’s phone check), and you don’t get any more respect or recognition just because of your age.

You’re still you. You’re not some brand new person that was just born already knowing how to pay taxes and live on your own, you’re still the same loser you were yesterday. You still stay home every weekend to binge watch Star Wars or play some video game for 72 hours straight, surviving off of the leftovers from the week before and several cans of Coca-Cola. You’re still the little sister of two much older siblings, you’re still the aunt of a baby boy and an over-hyper little girl, you’re still the same high-schooler who is barely passing Physics and Algebra.
Nothing changes.

Nothing changes, that is, except for your way of thinking.

Suddenly, everything is very profound. Everything is suddenly much bigger than what it was a few hours ago, when you were only seventeen and practically still a toddler. The buildings seem taller and the windows seem endless, the oceans look never-ending and the waves lap at your feet, trying to pull you in with every cold splash. Your friends suddenly seem so much more important to you and you feel as if you have to film every moment so as to not forget a thing - every stupid joke, every “That’s What She Said” line, every cup of drama, everything.  You decide to keep a list in your phone titled “Nice”, because it’s full of things that keep you cheerful and remind you that you’re still here, alive and breathing and very much real.  At eighteen, you don’t feel like you’re quite in control anymore and your body is on autopilot, only going through the motions while your mind and spirit is hovering above you trying to get you to do something. Talk to that girl, take a bite out of that weird foreign food, jump in those water puddles, tell your mom you love her, anything! 

You spend your nights lying awake in bed, earbuds in and music blasting, trying to get some sort of rhythm in you again. Your sheets feel too stuffy and they’re suddenly trying to suffocate you, so you kick them off, and then your pillow seems to fluffy and full of feathers that you throw it across your room. Your music isn’t ever loud enough, and you spend every day trying to listen to as much music as you can so as to drown out the feeling of being eighteen and suddenly an adult. You feel a need to make music or try out acting, the easiest ways to gain attention fast, but you ultimately back out in fear. You want to make a difference in the world and change it, leave your goddamn mark on it so that everyone will remember you, but you don’t know how and you’re not even sure if you want to anymore. You’re eighteen and suddenly time seems to be running out for you to be  different in a world full of people who have had a good and easy life handed to them on a silver f***ing platter.

You’re still you, but you’re also an adult now. You’re a leveled up version of that same girl who cries over Fox and The Hound, yet you have no f***ing clue what to do now. College is coming down on you fast and you still don’t understand sophomore geometry well enough, you don’t understand a thing the instructor says in physics because you focus on that stupid thing she said a few months ago that makes you crack up every time, you want to scream  because your mother thinks it’s helpful to remind you of your grades every hour of the day yet smothers you in affection to override it.

You’re eighteen and you feel like dying, you’ve always felt like dying but now that you’re an adult you feel like it’s okay now so you embrace it, you embrace wanting to die and you seek easy ways to do it. You’re not in your own body anymore and you love it, you love feeling like you have nothing to lose, you made it to adulthood and now there’s nothing after that but death, so why not speed it up? You’re sleeping but then you wake up, covered in sweat and breathing hard, and your feet take you downstairs to the kitchen drawers and the first thing you see in shiny and sharp and your eyes are big and glossy, your hands are trembling but you manage to grab the knife, and you couldn’t care less about your eighteen years at that point, you’re ready to plunge that knife and see what happens, see how red the floor gets, see how much of a mess you make, and you raise your hand, the knife getting closer and closer to your chest -

But you stop.

Your reflection is staring right back at you, and you realize that your brown eyes don’t have warmth in them anymore. You realize your hair hadn’t been washed in days. You realize you haven’t left your room for anything other than water and food.

You let go of the knife and your mind begins working again. The gears turn and you look down at the object with sudden disgust, kicking it away as you leave to go to your room, wondering why you ever thought of using it in the first place. Your eyes droop, you yawn; you’re tired. Very tired. Sleep sounds lovely and you welcome it with arms wide open, and when you wake up, you take a shower. You brush your teeth. You comb your hair. You get dressed. You look in the mirror.

You’re eighteen.
You’re alive.
You’re healthy.
You’re you.
You’re still you.
And that’s okay.