We age. It's a straight forward concept, but one that, as you become an adult, seems to be a tide you're to constantly swim against. Physical ageing is kind of beautiful (well, at the very least its better than the alternative; there are no beautiful corpses). As much as innocence is beautiful- I love looking at my cousins' hands and knowing they've not crammed them down their throats or used them to drag a blade across the blank canvas of their skins- there's something about the wisdom of each grey hair and wrinkle, the way that they speak of a past that you can never understand. It's like a book with yellowing pages and loose binding.
It's not just the physical that ages, although that's the easy bit; all you have to do is exist. The mental ageing is a blind tunnel. I've spent some time recently trying to work out whether my ever growing anger I feel towards my past and my previous selves is a sign of mental ageing or if it's stagnation or even regression. Or whether it even matters. Physically, the anorexia is making me feel 85. Mentally, it's making me feel like a child.
It's ok to be angry. So I tell myself, anyway. I've spent so long desperately trying to avoid my own anger because I'm so scared of turning into one of the monsters that have caused me so much pain. I'm starting to feel it, but I'm still taking it out on myself. I need to stop and breathe. I need to celebrate how I became the person I am. The adult. The grown up Condron. The powerful one.
I've written before about how life's challenges do not necessarily make a person stronger, so I won't labour that point. But challenges, for better and worst, do shape the person you become. I have a hell of a lot of anger at who I am and how I got here, but I need to lay it to rest. I need to celebrate that I do have redeeming features and I've found myself surrounded by lovely people, so I can't be as bad of a person as I assume. Is this the beginning of self esteem? Or at the very least, self respect? I hope so. I'll make it so.