The Curse of Getting Older

Leora Moretti

I’ve noticed that there’s an abundance of skeleton hands in my room. More than there should be on average. At least three. One of them was decoration from a Halloween themed gift, the other two are hair clips. Two more if you count my own hands.

I didn’t really notice until someone asked about it, the same way I didn’t notice how pink my room is until my friend asked if it was actually my room.

Lots of things in my room cause people to ask questions. Like the picture behind my door (a strange picture of me from 7 years ago). The Brazilian flag (I’m American). The bunk beds (I don’t share my room with anyone). The childish nature of my whole room.

The truth is I have a story for each one, each little thing in my room, and I’ll gladly explain them. The one thing I can’t figure out is why everyone else thinks I’ve outgrown my room, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.

What’s most representative of my room is the small brown rocking chair in the corner. It’s made for a little kid and I’m afraid I might break it someday. I can’t sit in it anymore, anyway, there are things on it now that I don’t want to move. My hairbrush. Nine rocks. Two sticks. Leaves. Part of a brick. I hold these little bits of nature close to my heart and it would crush me to move them, so absolutely  no one can sit in the rocking chair.

When I take a look around, I see it. Pink and purple floral curtains. Stuffed animals on my bed. Pink chair. Books for little kids. Pink trash can. Pink bag. Purple walls. Pink hangers. But really, what’s so wrong with pink?

There’s also stuff like a whiteboard with a poem written on it, Sherlock Holmes books, makeup, jewelry, textbooks, my laptop, caution tape (like a true 2000s movie troubled teen). Aren’t those things more grown-up? I think the flowery sheets overshadow them. The only thing people can focus on is the things that don’t fit me rather than the things that do.

I often find myself coming back to old shows and movies I used to like as a kid. They have the appeal of being simple, not only because all problems are resolved within 30 minutes, but because life was easier back then. The memories of when I used to watch these shows, being invested and surprised by the plot twist, scared by Halloween episodes, reminds me of when it was okay to be scared by someone in a mask.

I like horror movies now, but I’m not sure if it’s because I actually like them or because I need to prove a point. When I was a kid, I was really scared of those Disney Channel Halloween episodes. Like, unreasonably scared. My parents love to endlessly remind me of that wonderful fact, and now I’m worried I might only like horror movies because I need to show that I’m not scared anymore.

When I was a kid, I used to look at the alien communities of teenage girls and think they were so cool. So pretty, so smart, so put together, so much wiser. I think that’s true at least a little bit. Though now that I’m a teenage girl, I’ve equally found that I’m so worried, so sad, so angry. Which isn’t as alien as you might think, because I was probably worried, sad, and angry in childhood too. Maybe that’s why I incessantly yearned to be like teenage girls with every minute fibre of my being, because when you’re older those problems shouldn’t exist anymore, and maybe then I wouldn’t be so alien any more, so inhuman.

There was this book series I liked as a kid, about a bunny named Abigail who was a ballerina and couldn’t wait to grow up. She would turn clock hands forward in hopes to speed up time so she could be an adult. Now more than ever, I find myself wishing it worked like that. I want to speed up that clock, just get it over with, because going forward is better than going back, no matter how much I miss it.

Growing up has always seemed like something that I’m still waiting for. 6 year old me would’ve considered myself grown-up by now, but I don’t think I am, not yet. Being “grown-up” is always something just out of reach, aging along with you. Perhaps that makes it easier.

I had a better relationship with my sister when I was a kid. At least, I’m told I did. I see it in pictures, but never in memories.

She doesn’t like me now, in fact she hates me. Really, truly, abhors me. She says it’s because I’m stealing everything that’s hers, and that might very well be true, but it’s also possible that we might just like the same things. It’s not my fault I’m younger, and younger siblings are built on hand-me-downs. It’s not my fault I’d crumble without you, clinging onto your remnants in the hopes of survival. That’s just how it works, I’ve never had anything solid to call my own, please don’t blame me for molding my world around you. It was only ever an act of love.

I wonder if her contempt for me has something to do with the fact that our parents seem to like me better; they don’t even try to hide it. My mom always says that I’m her favorite, and it feels nice, and I think that that’s how it should be. I am the better child. Though I’m just now realizing what’s wrong with that.

There’s a lot of things I’m viewing differently now. Like how I haven’t seen my aunt in a while. There were some family issues, and my parents don’t really like her anymore. I know she has some problems, but she’s still the same person who gave me muffins and took me downtown to eat on my birthday. Those things aren’t so easily forgotten as one might think. I have always been a fervent hoarder of simplicities, they’re untainted by a doubtful world of extravagance. 

And so I’ve been trying to reconnect with her, I want to show her everything I’ve done. She loves adventure, and so I want to tell her about all the daring things I’ve done. About the things I’ve researched, the languages I’ve learned, the skills I’ve mastered.

But whenever I ask my parents about seeing her again they avoid the question and say we’ll talk about it later. I’m still waiting to talk. I think I may always be. Maybe that’s what growing up means, though this bit isn’t as easy.

Growing up means realizing that you saw everything through a lens in childhood, and now you can see clearly, but with the same ideals you had then, and never being sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 

If I really try, I can still see little me in myself. I’ve always carried some part of her with me. How could I not? I can’t just leave her behind. But I see her in a weird way, as if she’s someone completely separate from who I am now, because that’s easier. It’s better to imagine her as another person rather than someone I used to be. I don’t want to think about how different everything is now, from the things I like to my goals to my values.

It’s going to be my birthday tomorrow. My mom was showing me pictures of me when I was a baby, and I looked at those pictures and it didn’t seem real. There’s no way I came from that little girl, we’re too different.

One year older, and what have I learned? I fell in love. Little me always wanted that. I made new friends. Little me would love that. I lost some friends. Little me would cry. I learned new things. Little me would either think I’m cool, or that I’m trying too hard. I’m not sure. I can’t be sure what she would’ve said, because in the end, I’m not her.

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Leora Moretti is a girl from the United States with a lot to say and a lot more to write. This is one of her first pieces submitted to be published. In her free time she likes to learn new languages and practice wiggling her ears.