I don’t think we ever really grow up, evolve, change. No, no… we accumulate. So I am still who I was at 12, 17, 24. A composite of selves. Sometimes I speak like I am AB-SOL-UTELY better, different, remodeled. But that shit ain’t true. Parts of myself will always be a teenager, a child, an early twenty-something (oh-my-lord-have-mercy I can’t believe I can say that). Parts of me will always want to SQEEEEEZE a controlling belt around every person and every situation, every reaction, every feeling. Part of me will always fear that I will never be significant, that I am doomed to the legacy of my parents failed relationship, that I will someday become a princess (yes, I belieeeeeeve!), that Santa is a chubby, old guy, who’s life purpose is to FIND and BRING me Barbie-everything. Obviously.

The only thing that EVER definitely changes is our breadth and depth of awareness of our complex, ever-expanding selves.

So sometimes my 16 year old self needs and finds expression. This is around the time I discovered who I was as a woman, as a sexual being, as an object of affection (or disdain). And that bitch ain’t so hot, or cool. Awkward really. Long, bruised by a contorted sense of body awareness, skinny as all get-out. A trunk of bones actually. One that distorts her self-image and thinks FAT WHORE with every sideways glimpse into the mirror. Who idealized Kate Moss— not for her beauty, but for her ability to RESIST consumption.

That girl is ever the “friend”, never the girlfriend. That is the girl who dudes want to hang with because they want to bone her curvy, fleshy, sexy girl friend. And believe it or not, even now she resides as an immediate interpretation of every male gaze, every snippet of male attention. Shocks-my-26-year-old-self-to-death if ever or whenever I am slammed in the face with a, here, eat this, he likes you, swallow. Whuuuuuut? You-are-jyo-KING!

So what the hell do I do with this sack-of-a-Jodi? Push her down deep, Polly-fucking-Anna her beliefs away? ….Don’t worry, sweetheart, you are beautiful and everyone loves you because you are a GOOD PERSON. Barf. And not effective. Cast her aside as an (puff, puff) “immature” side of myself, no longer occupying my personal space. Now that’s a load of horseshit. Oh I know… how about we psycho-analyze the root cause of her dysfunction? Blame Mom maybe? Or, oo, oooooo, Dad’s Dad’s Dad? Yeah, totally. That definitely works.

Or how about this: how about I give her space to play? Ignore a child with tantrums and the tantrums just keep growing louder and louder and scream-ier and harder to ignore or stuff into a shoe-box named, “memories”. She’s acting out? Calling me FAT, or undesirable, or “just a buddy”? I’ll take her for a car ride and bump house jams, fist pump, piss off the neighbors, damage my eardrums. CUZ THAT’S WHAT SHE’D DO. Let her flow in me and through me like blood, inseparable, a driving force, and essential. And I’ll trust that she’ll quiet down after a time.

And rest in peace.