Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me

I chase my weeks with shots of tequila, the burn of the liquid scorching away the gloom that has seemed to wrap itself around me like a wet blanket over the past couple of days. I think about all the things I was supposed to do, all the responsibilities I have once again pushed off until next week, but quickly wash it away with another swig. The bitter taste that lingers in the back of my throat is easier to handle than the overwhelming confusion of what I’m supposed to do with the rest of my life. There is nothing like a Friday night when you’re only 23. 

I am half-numb, half-exposed to the world. Despite what it may seem, I am no longer only a shell of a girl; I have been chasing something for so many years, something I can’t quite put into words yet. I’ve wasted so many years searching for something, believing that if I tried hard enough, there would be a prize at the finish line. Still, I’m unsure what the trophy I was seeking for is. Approval from my father?  A higher paying salary? The ability to actually accept myself as I am? To fall in love again? I don’t know. 

I don’t think there will ever be a finality to my girlhood. Though I am no longer a carcass of who I once was, I am still a mosaic of everyone I have ever encountered. Whether good or bad, I will continue to pick up pieces of other people, taping bits of them into the scrapbook in my mind. I am half-exposed to the word, open to new opportunities, unafraid of new faces and friendships I will embark on. This part of me is ready, always. I am half-numb to the world, the side of me that has been chafed raw with loss and grief. I have not yet reconciled with Mr. Hyde, unable to shake the fear that settles into my bones whenever I begin to open myself up to more intimate relationships. The anxiety gnaws at my stomach, it feels like a panic attack. No, fool. It’s merely a crush. 

I used to say that believe in God, though if I’m being honest, I’m not sure if I ever did. There was something comforting about talking aloud in the dark, confessing to some sort of higher being and believing in a guarantee that everything would be okay. I know now a hope like that is almost as fruitless as clinging on to unreciprocated love. I think that if a God were to exist, she would be a teenage girl. She would dance around her room with runs in her tights, chipped nail polish on her fingernails, and remnants of her weekend strewn across her floor. She would be late to class, argue with her parents, and slam her bedroom door to punctuate the end of her sentence.  If God was real, she would be a teenage girl because who claims more that they know everything about the world than someone like me at the age of seventeen? I still do not know if my naivety was a blessing or a curse. 

As I have clumsily stumbled from girlhood to womanhood, there are many things I am still awful at. Apologizing. Accepting a compliment without deflecting. Calling my mom consistently. Not crying when I’m angry. Liking something a normal amount. Cursive. Guilt after eating. Navigating awkward silences. Materialism. My anxious attachment style. Alcohol in moderate consumption. Pulling trig. Reverting to a baby voice every time I see a cat or a dog. Falling in love.

But, as well, there are many things I have learned to enjoy as I blindly fumble my way through my 20s. Making friends. Remembering someone’s name after a single meeting. Arriving early as a means of arriving on time. Consistently writing. Pursuing my passions. Being nice to others without being a doormat. Going on first dates. Going on second dates. Cutting ties after a third date. Journaling. Reading. Self-discipline. Running. Enjoying a sweet treat at any hour of the day. Drinking water. Falling in love. 

I have spent so long being torn between not wanting anyone to perceive me and begging to be seen. I have spent so long being angry and so long being indifferent to the world. I am happy all the time, I am sad all the time. I crave to be enveloped in a man’s embrace, the feeling of their hand on my skin feels like a straightjacket. Being a girl, becoming a woman, is living a life of contradiction. I drink too much and not enough. I eat too much and not enough. I say the right things, but never enough. There is nothing like societal opinions when you’re only 23. 

A man asks me what it’s like to be a woman. All I can think about is taking a gun to his head and shooting him dead. That. That is what it feels like to be a woman.