January was okay. I didn’t love it. I didn’t hate it. I’m more active now compared to how I was before. I started the process of moving out and renting a house. I care just a little bit more. I still feel sixteen, aching to grow up. The new year rattled me, shook me back to the present where I realized that I am grown up, in most of the ways that matter.

 I am also blissfully immature: laughing when I’m not supposed to, forgetting to take my vitamins, hating different foods, loving certain types of rain and giggling like a lovestruck young girl when someone I think is cute walks by. Every day I find more reason to stay young. Though throughout these same days, I run through a routine that reminds me I will not be for much longer. Life is truly hysterical in that way. Giving me so many reasons and then yanking them away as quick as they came. 

I have new friends, two doors down. I have old friends, light years away. (Six hours, but who’s really counting?) We’re all older now. Happy Birthday, Annalise. I miss you more than words can describe. Even our conversations are now miles apart, though that does not mean I love you any less. Happy Birthday, Cora, my reason for surviving. Eighteen sure sucks, but being apart from you hurts worse. Happy Birthday, Knox. You are my pride. I’ll love you ‘till the sun dies. Happy Birthday, Jennifer, you make my dad the happiest I think he’s ever been. I hope you are never discouraged when I hesitate on a hug. I simply am unsure of myself. Happy Birthday, Andrew, my new friend, one I ought to keep a closer eye on than I do. Happy  Birthday, Rady. You have changed my life forever. (Thank you) Happy Birthday, Will.You are an enigma, one I hope never changes. Finally, happy birthday to me. 

Nineteen is a bitter pill that I am reluctant to swallow, as I have never been okay with change. When I glance at my reflection, I do not look at how my face and stature has matured. No, I look at my freckles and ponder about where they have run off to. I look at my hair and wonder when it became so dull. I think about how the years have changed me, scars on my feet and bleach growing out of my hair. I think about how youth has evaded me. 

Now, I am no wizard with words, but I believe there’s some to describe this feeling. I know I am not the first to feel it, nor will I be the last. January is a season of change. I dread it every year. This one- much to my chagrin- has been no different. A month full of hope, change, disappointment, despair and old habits falling through the cracks. I hope and pray every year that I will one day be okay with change, to be discontent with complacency, but I fear that wish may never grace me. I can hope and plead, but only God knows what it’s going to take. I’m not religious, though I once was, but maybe some force will push me where I need to go. 

I can write and write about how I never dare to print these words, until all my pens run out of ink, until my hand cramps and can surely no longer hold a pen. Careless mistakes litter these pages and my tears stain the paper, but nothing will change so long as I stay the way I am. I say “only God knows,” but we both know that’s just a phrase used to shove blame anywhere but myself, anything to make my sick complacency not my problem. I write in riddles and oxymorons trying to order my thoughts and desires. How’d I get here? How will I get out of here? And many others are just the same. No one has answers but me. I am just too juvenile to see them.