My Roaring Twenties

I am twenty-one and cannot spend my whole life closed up and cold, neck aching from staring back at sixteen. From introspection comes revelation, and from revelation comes more introspection, and I am tired of living at the center of my past’s magnetic field. It makes a loop, a line, repeating into infinite intervals. I am told I am strong because I can talk about it in hour-long sessions on plush pillowed sofas with a furrowed, frowned face. But talking about it makes me feel like I’ve swallowed bitter cold New England Januarys, and the cold doesn’t belong with someone like me. Continue reading