In Remission.

They all say that it gets better, it gets better the more you grow. It gets better, but what if I don't? 

— Teenage Dream, Olivia Rodrigo

There are moments in life when everything starts to sort of make sense. You're seated in the living room, ten in the morning, and there are birds chirping so close that the feel of their beaks against your ear is tangible, light pouring in from curtains pushed open, wind grazing every inch of your skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. You're alive, and what a thing it is to be alive. 

There are other moments too, when not many things make sense. You're standing in a school lobby, five in the evening, there are car tires screeching on gravel, and mud stains on tiles, but pretty pink skies, a kind security lady with a faraway smile. You're not dead, but you're not entirely alive. 

There are all these moments, all of this life to live and feel and fall in love with and hate so much you want to throw up and lose everything you've ever wanted to save and be everything you said you'd be one day. There are all these moments, and there's so much of you that you're still discovering. 

You can't stand the smell of oranges, but you're obsessed with the concept of them. You're not meant to fit in, but dear God, do you hate standing out. You're not exactly an ideal but so many people care, and you don't understand why even when they tell you, because they won't understand why you don't want them to see you, perceive you, and love you. But you want to be loved, sometimes so desperately that you've begun hating the idea of it. You want to be understood but you hate having to be the one explaining. You're so full of yourself that you despise everything that reminds you that you are. 

Look at you, you hate looking at yourself. When did you last see yourself in the mirror and resist the urge to pick yourself apart? 

There's a saying that swims to the surface of your mind every time you second guess who you are and what you're becoming: All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII: Enter Jaques, narrator etiam protagonist. Idle philosopher, so easily entertained, a fiend for melancholy and despair. Still, more apt than any of old Billy's players, and so often disregarded because his brilliance is one-dimensional, and so entirely removed from reality. You think of him often, you catch yourself musing on the mundane and reprimand yourself; no one likes a Jaques, not even Jaques himself. The world is a stage but no one wants to look behind the curtain, not as desperately as you do, and everyone knows which part to play or at least knows how to pretend like they do, but you're left blinking, deer in the headlights, in spotlights you're not entirely sure you should be under. 

There are all these moments, some fleeting, some that you'll revisit even in your grave; like the first time you said No and you meant it, the second, and the third. Like the singular molecule of doubt that planted itself in your heart when you opened your mouth to tell someone you love them and no amount of I love you's will take the doubt away. Like standing in the shower and letting the water do its worst, because the very thing that should be making you feel clean has started to feel unsafe. Like crescent-shaped indents on the inside of your palms and bathroom doors that don't lock all the way. Like sitting in the middle of a netball court and waiting for the world to stop spinning. It never did, it never will. 

There are these moments, and there'll be more of them, when life will be everything the books and the movies and the songs have told you it'll be. It'll reinvent itself at every turn and the whiplash will be severe. How did you get here? You don't quite know. 

They'll ask you for your story and you'll tell them you don't have one. You ran so fast to get here, but here isn't all that much because there's still so much ahead, and the milestones you pass bring you joy so fleeting you're already onto the next one. Then you slow down because when the mirage fades, they start looking less like accomplishments and more like cinderblocks because that's what they are. A weight growing heavier over time.  

It's not about people, it's never been, because no person has been with you at your worst, and no one has tolerated you because you don't let anyone in when you're intolerable. You're so proud of the walls you've built for yourself that you don't realize they're caving in. You're so enamoured with your strength that you refuse to let anyone hold your weight for you. And you have this theory that as long as you say 'I'm fine/it's fine/we're fine', it'll be true. And it has to be, because what else could you be?

You're 23. You don't want to be 23. But you don't remember being anything but 23, not as of late. You'll be 23 for the next three months, and then you'll be 24 because the new year marks a new age. It has to. Then you'll be 24, until you turn 24, and the cycle will repeat. Your grandmother will tell you, "I hope you can live a happier, more fulfilling life next year", but what she means to say is, "I hope you get married", and you know these words come from the best of places, still there's not much you can take away but the implication that your life is somehow less-than. And maybe it is. You can't remember the last time you were happy with what you're becoming, and maybe her words are a prayer God will hear over yours. Maybe next year will look different, not because it has to be, but because it's written for you.

You don't remember when the pessimism started, but you can't really go back and change it either. So you're stuck here, wanting to be hopeful, knowing you're not, aching with the need to be renewed, and wondering if you want it.

Does it get better, you want to ask the you of next year, does any of this get easier? 

You already know the answer, you're just hoping you're wrong. That this time next year, you won't have to hope the year after is 'better'. This year, you'll sit on your bed, head on your mother's lap, thank her for having you, and pray she doesn't regret it. Your father will press a kiss to your forehead and the warmth will be enough for you to make it through the day. Your brother will ask you "Are you okay?" and find an answer in your silence. Your 21-year-old self wrote, "I hope you know you're never too much, I hope you know you're always enough", in a letter you knew you'd read today. The sun will shine after weeks of rain like God wants you to know everything can be okay. And you'll believe it, because all the world's a stage, but every play must come to an end, and we must all return to what we once were:  Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. (As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII)