against my own free will

we’re beautifully obnoxious (x)

expression in survival (x)

what does it mean to turn nineteen? right the continous transition into adulthood: freedom to drink, shit, sleep and eat at your own accord. no more house duties, or early wake up calls from nagging parents. the freedom to REALLY drink, find a life for yourself outside your family, build your own. what it’s not supposed to mean is solely fear. the fear of finishing school and losing health insurance. the fear of not affording medications because of that same reason. the fear of finding therapy that is covered by the insurance you do have that isn’t group therapy entitled for you, a nineteen-year-old but also anyone else that’s still breathing because yes. nineteen is the legal age. but it’s not the same as being forty. or being thirty-two and dealing with a divorce. It’s not helpful to sit in a circle and say your name and listen to linda about how her marriage was all she could identify with. she’s lost too but not in the same way. being nineteen but not feeling nineteen. living out a life that was spent on dependency. dependency on an illness that gave you a safety blanket. an illness that gave you an identity. The Sick One. that gave your parents the purpose to let others study you, to figure out your brain. the illness that confused them and that let them further enable and wrap you up in more blankets that covered you from the outside world. so many layers it felt like time stopped. for one, two, then suddenly seven years. and suddenly it’s no longer okay for your parents to cover you in blankets. the clock never stopped. each tick was a breath you dreadfully took. through treatments and pills and more words to hide behind. you became an illness. not a person. just a body that was sick. but now you are nineteen. and all those warm cozy blankets everyone gave you have been ripped off. there’s no longer a glass of nice warm milk waiting for you after every day of your refusal to get better. your bed is no longer made and tidy. your house is no longer your house. you realize now. time never stopped. you just disappeared as it happened. your mind stolen from you. and now you wait. you wait beside this cold glass of stale champagne you bought because HOORAY you’re an adult. you wait as you check your bank statements and calculate how many more pills you can afford to keep your mind at bay. you wait as you listen to Linda cry and say that she doesn’t know what to do with herself anymore now that her husband’s gone. and you nod and smile when the group therapy councilor asks you to speak. you say that you are struggling but you are also managing. because every breath you take is the clocks gears turning.every breath is a second you’ve taken back. and even if it’s shit, it’s yours to own. your body, your mind, the person you are. not the bullshit anxiety that wrapped you up in blankets. or the worn-out depression that let you sleep twenty hours a day. it’s yours. and regardless of your nineteenth birthday not being a fun birthday bash with wine coolers and tagged Instagram posts, you’re alive. even with this cold stale champagne still burning your throat. you feel. and that’s more than you could do four years ago.so you wait. for tomorrow. for the year. until you take back each second that was stolen from you.