The Years I've Grown Up

Thirteen. Sexual Object.

At thirteen I went out for dinner and instead of being handed a kids menu and crayons, I was given a dirty wink. 

When a stranger smiled at me on the street and I was distraught, worrying he’d follow me home instead of thinking he had a nice smile. 

The whistles and catcalls on the streets composed a symphony which orchestrated the soundtrack to the very own horror movie in my mind. 

I realized I was growing up when I put the sticker over my laptop’s webcam to ensure no pervert would tune in to me changing in my room. 

When all of a sudden, the tank top and shorts combo I wore as a fourth grader now gets me remarks such as “slut” and “whore”. 

When I turned into a figure for men to bid on. 

When I started to be afraid. 

Fourteen. Depressed. 

At fourteen, I took a razor blade to my shoulder for the first time just to try and feel anything at all. 

When the overwhelming feeling of everything and nothing engulfed my body and became the only thing I knew. 

When I missed school because I couldn’t convince myself living was worth getting out of bed for.

When I sat in the car with my mom staring out a window, hearing her struggle to sniffle back her tears and she drove me to therapy. 

When I was too afraid to tell my therapist I was bisexual because I was afraid my parents would find out, or that I’d break the promise with my abusive girlfriend not to tell anyone about my sexuality, or that someone from school would come up to me and knock books out of my hand or call me a fag just like they did to the kid behind me in homeroom who identified as gay, or the million other reasons I refused to be myself. This is when I realized I was growing up. 

I realized I was growing up when my therapist tried to put me on medication.
When I would cry myself to sleep for months not knowing why or how to stop or what was wrong with me or why I liked both women and men and wanted quote unquote “fix” who I was. 

When I thought that there was something wrong with the way I felt. 

When I identified as nothing but broken. 

Fifteen. Coming out. 

At fifteen I was recovering from the mess of a year I’d previously encountered. 

But something good came of this year.

I came out to all who mattered. 

When I looked at myself in the mirror and whispered, “You can do this” to my shaking figure before walking into my parent’s bedroom.

  When I felt their warm embrace caress both me and my newfound identity. 

I was free to be myself.

I realized I was growing up because I knew exactly who I was.

No longer did I wonder why I didn’t think the boy everyone was head over heels for was cute. 

No longer did I stay silent when the bullies picked on the kid behind me in homeroom. 

When I stood up for who the fuck I was. 

When I stopped being afraid. 

Sixteen. Half way.

Sixteen is my current location.
Entering my senior year of high school. 

College just around the corner.  

There have been lots of conclusions written to narratives I had drafted these past few years. 

My relationship with a best friend terminated, for she was fairly un-acceptive of my sexuality and “choices”. 

Another best-friendship ended, for they tormented both my family and I. 

Called my mother fake and talked about me behind my back, then would meet me at my door asking for favors with a smile. 

I’m realizing I’m growing up. 

There’s no turning back. 

In a year I’ll be out of this suffocating town and can move to a city to pursue the dream of my name on a marquis. 

With three years left to be a so called “teen”, I see a bright future ahead with many miles to go. 

I hope the latter will be better than those early on. 

Still at the end of the day, I would change one moment of it all. 

I wouldn’t take back all the drama and tears. 

I wouldn’t take back the screaming and scars. 

This is my life and now it’s time to move on. 

Time to move into my late teenage years. 

My years of adulthood are quickly approaching the station.

The time is here. 

I only wish I could go back and share with my younger self that I’d make it to where I am today. 

That I’d make it to college with astounding grades, that I’d come out to my parents with no signs of rage. 

That I’d make an abundance of new friends and dispose of the toxic. 

That I’d survive my battle with my mental illness. 

That one day I’d stick up to those bullshit men who would whistle and holler. 

I’d show my thirteen year old self my pepper spray and middle finger. 

Only time will tell what my nineteen year old self will long to tell sixteen year old Mikaela. 

Or my twenty year old self.

Or forty seven. 

She’ll figure today’s trauma and struggles out.
I can’t wait to hear what she’ll whisper back to me.