100 milligrams, $10 copay

note: this post was originally from our stillness, a now defunct blogging project.

I turn 23 in less than a month. I wish I knew what else to say.

All I know is that I hate odd numbers. 21 was okay because there was some rite of passage associated with it, but my worst years have been during odd numbers. I think this is what I get for being born seven months before 9/11.

There isn't even enough of a coincidence for this to be a matter of superstition—18 and 20 were rough for me too. 23 is just such a grating number to me. It feels incomplete. I'm certain I'm autistic.

I'm trying to make it through the rest of January. I'm hoping February will be kinder. It usually is. There's less days to wait for.

The urge to do something drastic to my appearance is festering again, and I know for a fact that it's because I haven't perceived any positive change that would ease my anxiety over my stagnation. In college, it was easy because I would just write a spiteful article and get full credit or whatever, but now I just have myself and the meritless world around me. It's self-sustaining and it's fucking terrifying.

I would be lying if I said I didn't miss the security of being a big fish in a small, delusional pond. I'm certain I endured much more then—with what 18-unit semesters and two part-time jobs I put myself through—but the work was gameable, and the rewards were tangible.

I don't know what value comes from anything I do now. Am I stupid for wanting to believe that the value lies in the fact that what I do had mattered to me at some point? Am I stupid for wanting to believe that is enough to continue? I don't think it's possible. I can't allow myself to care about what I make unless someone else cares.

There has been a lot of change. I'm moving out again. I'm grieving my best friend. I got health insurance and updated my Zoloft dosage for the first time in four years.

I'm turning 23, and I will be someone else again.