A paper chain hung from my mirror before every birthday growing up. I cut paper strips for hours, sometimes rainbow, sometimes blue or pink (my favorite colors). I counted up, making sure to represent each day until my birthday; then I counted down, wanting desperately for the cake and parties and friends and streamers and a new year of me to get here, every November 24.
I’ve never needed a birthday as badly as I need 24.
I’ve existed this year in a natural state of countdowns, one appointment to the next, to my final weekly IV, to the LSAT, now, to 24. My paper-chain era reemerged in my memory; I pictured myself triumphantly ripping off one ring each day until November. I contorted what was a happy ritual, a celebration, into a dismissal of an entire year, an erasure of my own experiences.
It is easy to await a new beginning, to ruminate on all the newness 24 will bring: going to law school, moving to a new city, traveling to Europe with my sister before we both go to new universities. They’re shiny prospects, each one physically far away from the tedium and unwanted familiarity of a painful, trying year. Continue reading