#3. why do i want to be 19 again?

"sometiiiiimes i just wanna rewiiiiind" — charli xcx, brat (2024)

note & spoiler: this post discusses some pretty heavy topics — details of eating disorders (restriction, and general disordered eating habits), depressive episodes, anxiety, and panic attacks. if you’re not up for that, feel free to skip this one. i love you, and hope to come out with something much more lighthearted next week. take care <3

I.

I’ve been up all night, and it’s a minute to 6 in the morning. I’ve scrolled through my Google Drive and reminisced on a life I can’t even fathom living now. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, it won’t be the last.

II.

I am at the hairdresser’s. My reference photo is one of me at 19 in 2017, red lips painted on, nose tiny and pointed, a smile plastered on my face, because I'd never looked this good. Maybe it'll fix me, I tell myself, the same as every time I get this haircut.

III.

I published (and unpublished) a personal post on here about how nostalgia is dangerous. Going a step further to say, there's nothing more diabolical than being a woman in her mid-twenties trying to look 7 years younger.

In the mirror, I see fuller cheeks that I resent, acne that surprise drops on me when I least expect it, and my top that used to fit so much better on my boobs, I swear it did. Even the haircut I got — that did make me feel alive for a couple of days — has gotten old. My hair isn't what it used to be, because my mother doesn't cook my meals anymore, so it's not being nourished the way it used to be and basically more of it lives on my apartment floor than on my head.

It's not like I do it on purpose. There's a sense of safety in 19 — never mind that it really holds some of my worst memories as a young adult. Maybe it's because of how the last two years have gone. The least I can do is look hot, right?

IV.

In my dreams, I float across university halls that don’t even look like they did when I attended. I see myself in the front row at a 4pm lecture, struggling to sit up straight, pen in hand, but missing every single point my professor makes. I’d skipped breakfast, downed an iced coffee for lunch, and am going to stuff my face with KFC right after, and that’s all I can think about. Sorry prof.

V.

The first time I watched Miss Americana — the Taylor Swift documentary on Netflix — the one part that stayed with me is her venting about being photographed constantly and how seeing pictures of herself everyday wasn’t healthy for her. It turned into a three minute long section where she explained that she’d list everything she put in her mouth every day, and how a picture of her stomach slightly sticking out of her shorts would make her spiral, and trigger her to stop eating for a bit. She insists that it’s only happened a couple of times, and I believed her at the time, until I remembered how shame makes you lie about things like that and she said she wasn’t proud of it. So.

(video from this youtube video that i couldn’t link because it’s age-restricted)

VI.

As I’ve grown older, my self-image has improved. I’m not obsessing over what I look like as much — at all, really — unless something or someone triggers it. I surround myself with lovely people who’ve known me for years, and request that they don’t comment or make jokes about my picky eating. The only times I feel even slightly uncomfortable is when coworkers talk about their diets and wanting to lose weight, and by now I’ve learned to walk away. I’m on the road to body neutrality, just what I want.

Wait. What’s that? Inching closer and closer?

Oh. It’s the self-hatred that has nothing to do with my body and everything to do with my brain. Oh, dear.

My twenties so far have been marked with so many perceived failures it’s a little bit ridiculous — when I heard Taylor sing “how can a person know everything at 18 / but nothing at 22?” , it felt like a personal attack. I had a 30 by 30 list, for God’s sake! I had a five year plan! In theory, I knew exactly what I wanted, with no Plan B, because I was going to make it work.

The thing is — of course, I couldn’t make everything work perfectly. I didn’t have the discipline to check off my goals, nor did circumstances work in my favor sometimes. It happens. That’s life. But instead of adjusting to it, I leaned further in, and fell on my face. Repeatedly.

Punishment — because I need to punish myself — comes in the form of deprivation. No sleep, no food, no friends to text. Nope. You have to sit in it until you’re sick of it or have a panic attack so bad you have no choice but to call someone to talk you out of it.

Regretfully, it’s only this month that I fully realized how harmful that is for a million reasons. The way if someone I loved would behave this way, I would do anything in my power to help them. Why won’t I do the same for myself?

VII.

It comes to me when I stare my reflection at the hairdresser’s. The me that stares back is…19 years old.

Or as close to her was possible.

Hollower cheeks, dark circles back in full swing. I don’t look good at all. I look sick.

VIII.

It’s been a week since I got that haircut. I’ve been trying to eat three meals a day every day, but it’s hard. I went on a walk yesterday, and it helped me more than I care to admit, because people were right. I haven’t stayed up until sunrise for two nights in a row. There’s a sticky note on my wall that says Joy Menu and it lists every little thing I can to do feel better and not spiral (includes: taking a shower, dancing around the kitchen, watching dan and phil, texting a friend, and a sweet treat. Yes, I succumbed to little treat culture. Typical).

IX.

So why do I want to be 19 again?

I really do think about it all the time now. Why that age specifically? Is it just the trap of nostalgia? Despite the hard stuff, I had a solid friend group, my grades were good, I enjoyed learning, and the world actually did feel like my oyster, even though I hadn’t seen it fully yet. Do I want to sit in it a little longer?

Or is it because I know what happens and I want to save myself? There’s a post on the internet that I’ve lost unfortunately that went something like, “we should be able to be 13 again. i know what to do now”, and I have never related to something more.

Getting the same haircut every couple of years, trying on the same clothes hoping they’ll fit, listening to the same artists, chasing the feeling of hearing them for the first time. Writing it out like this, makes me realize it’s so utterly human.

I’m not really sure to conclude this, to be honest. This wasn’t the plan, not that I had one. I’m going to list some of the essays I read that comforted me a little bit. Take care of yourselves. Love ya!

“reading” list:

• Mirror, Mirror by Let It Loud Lists: The second list especially helped me, and has a new home in my bookmarks.

• Returning to the Water by Jenny Tough: A really inspiring story about doing what you love despite the body image horrors.

• in conversation with myself by Rayne Fisher-Quann: This is my favorite post by Rayne. It’s what I needed to read to stop myself from deleting this whole post, because I fear that I come across really self-pitying in these posts when all I want is for people to tell me they feel the same, to tell me I’m not alone.

• not reading, but After Laughter by Paramore soundtracked the editing session. Take what you will from that.

this post got away from me, and i still don’t see the point in sharing it, but if you’re reading this, then i have. i really do hope to come back with something that’s not such a bummer, and so navel-gaze-y. thank you for reading <3