Growing old is charming, but growing up is odd.

"I think I may have to grow up without growing old. I think we’re going to have to define differently what I’m going to be. We’re going to have to define my growing up differently.” 

This is a quotation I stumbled across while I was drowning in my many life problems at 3 a.m. while obsessively scrolling through Tumblr. I often ponder about this quote. In my opinion, the idea of growing old is extremely beautiful: the idea of traveling to new places, meeting new people, and having fantastic experiences is rather delightful. Growing old is nice, but growing up is odd. This is a thought-provoking concept for me. Growing up, while a necessary part of aging, does not sit well with me. On the eve of my seventeenth birthday, I remember having a conversation with a friend. He asked how I felt about becoming 18 and whether or not I was prepared to grow up. At the time, I conveyed my excitement, to which he replied, "growing old and growing up are two different things."We are given many years of life; getting old is natural; growing up with grace or bitterness is a decision."

 I never really considered it, but after blowing out my 18th birthday candles, my life changed radically.

 My little brothers have grown into gigantic men, doing things that my exes did, which cannot be stopped because it is part of their growth process (it is a canon event). I hope they know I love them, because they will go through things they may not be able to tell anyone about, and I want them to know they are loved.

I've lost friends over the years, some on good terms, some on bad, and now that I'm 19, I don't regret it. Life has moved from looking at all my school mates doing things in their lives to unfollowing 300 people who don't add anything to my life at 3am.  From doing childish things to doing things to please people, my desire for people to like me has faded, and as the idea growing up has arrived at my door, it has brought with it a new set of baggage that I have to bear alone. When boredom strikes at 3 a.m., I go back to my phone's pictures app, which has turned into a cemetery for all my deceased friendships. Growing up for me means not deleting these photos off my phone, but rather revisiting those moments. Sometimes it's extremely depressing, but other times I just smile at them. The idea of meeting my two friends with the third not present is strange; it's as if the void left by their absence can never be filled.

Growing up, the concept of loss becomes true, the loss of thoughts, feelings, friends, connections, and, most importantly, the loss of my old self. The clouds of nonchalance roll in, and the numbness begins to fall - the girl I fought with in 10th grade feels so distressing, 15 year old's arguing over things that never really mattered, I hope she's doing well now. Everyone who was an issue for my 16-year-old self now seems insignificant. The fear of being forgotten is no longer present. My fear of dying alone has evolved into a worry of dying unhappy and dissatisfied with the life I've lived when I reach the age of 80. I like to be alone most of the time, and I've grown to appreciate my own company; I can now eat alone in restaurants. Growing up also means that I'm weary of being a decent person in public while being a bad person to myself. I frequently design mind maps for myself named "what makes vidushi - vidushi?" which i jot and scribble at 3 a.m. under the red lights of my room, attempting to remember what I've become and what makes me-me, to solve my untimely and surely unwelcomed identity crisis.

My Literature professor tells me that I have never fallen in love, which is pretty clear in my thoughts. "Love hasn't touched you," he adds as I recall all the times I've gone away from people and others have ran away from me. I've lost out on the young plotless relationships where people loved you for who you were, and I'm now entering an era where every relationship will be based on my self-worth, financial standing, ambition, and objectives. My most painful and distant connection with my mother has altered, definitely better, if not the best. something my ten-year-old self would be ecstatic about. She knows me for who I am - the good, the bad, and everything nasty - for someone who was the last person I would ever contact.

Growing up is a bittersweet experience; I don't have any mindless summers ahead of me, only 365 days of hard labor. Growing up, I've become someone my younger self would despise but also admire. Growing up feels like a plant that has grown in the most unusual ways possible but has managed to go on to better and more secure ground. Once I turn 20 in three months, I hope that I will grow up and grow old  with dignity, humility, and a healthy dose of both fear and hope.