October Sits in the Back of My Throat Like an Early Winter Cold

There is a brief window when the sun sets, where the sky turns from a brilliant blue to a golden orange as the sun kisses the horizon. As it continues to settle lower behind the distant skyline, the sky fades into soft pink, and then before you know it, night has fallen. It’s the same three-minute cycle every day, yet it still has the power to take our breath away as if we are just seeing it for the first time. The way the sun sets is the same way I experience October, and it’s the same way I’m experiencing my 20s.

I have this weird obsession with nostalgia. It scratches an itch in my brain, except it’s like I’m scratching myself with a knife, and I’m not scratching, I’m repeatedly stabbing myself in the places that hold my most vulnerable memories. I recall moments in my life when I was at my lowest and yet still look back on them fondly, wishing that I was back in that place. It’s as if Type 2 fun has taken the form of my adolescence. I like to claim that I don’t know why I cling to the pain of nostalgia. That’s what it is, isn't it? It’s painful, in the most gut-wrenching, nauseating kind of pain. The remembering is beautiful, it’s honest, and it’s bittersweet. It’s a trip down memory lane until I am not skipping anymore, but rather stumbling and crawling with bruises on my hands and knees because I am reminded that I can never relive those experiences again, I do not love those people the same, and I am not that person anymore.

October is the month of nostalgia. It is the true beginning of fall when the air feels like I have not taken a full breath in years. It’s the beginning of Gilmore Girls, oversized sweaters, and candles from TJ Maxx. It’s the feeling of something new. For me, it’s also a feeling that lasts only a couple of weeks, if that. October is my sunset; something I look forward to every year but always fleeting. Maybe it’s the colder weather or the shorter duration of sunlight but as October trucks along, I find myself receding. It’s a constant ebb and flow. Some days I wake up invigorated to take on the day and other days, I want to sleep through the rest of this decade. Maybe it’s something about being in my 20s. Maybe it’s a universal feeling. Maybe there’s just something wrong with me. Trying to untangle myself from the confusion, fear, and anger of my early 20s is my October. It has been full of love, hurt, novelty, nostalgia, and every contradictory emotion a human can experience.

One minute I feel as if I have my whole life figured out; my five-year, ten-year plan set out right in front of me, clear as day. Other days I sob because I can’t figure out what to make for dinner. I love where I live and never want to leave this place behind. I want to leave this city - I can’t stand staying in one place my whole life. I thrive on my independence and not having to wait for someone else to make something out of my solidarity. I crave intimacy, I yearn for my past love, and I would beg on my hands and knees for him to be in my life again. I love being like other girls and finding community in the fact that we are all connected in some way. I want to stand out and be singular. I hate that I dress like, act like, feel like everyone else. I am beautiful. I adore who I am and who I have surrounded myself with. I hate myself. Why do I look like this? I’m ugly. I am safe where I am, and comfortable where I have been; I love it. I hate it; I am not growing if I remain stagnant in life.

I want everything back to the way it was. The way it was five months ago, the way it was one year ago, the way it was four years ago, the way it was when I was shiny and new. But there is no point to it, the wanting. I know that I am young, that I have my whole life in front of me. I’m excited, but fuck. I’m so scared. I have been told, have read, have experienced that your 20s are relentless. They will hurt you and strip you down to your most vulnerable self, and they will not care. But that’s the beauty of it. They are your defining years, the decade dedicated to being lost and not knowing. And man, it is so hard to embrace that. It is so hard to accept that I will be constantly changing, constantly shedding layers of my past self, and it will not be easy. But I can’t help but cling to my past, collecting pieces of myself like it’s a hobby.

My memories hold a gun to my head, demanding me to go back. Go back. I do not know how to tell it that I can not.