The concept of growing up used to seem so black and white to me. I thought one day I’d just miraculously be a “grown up”, in much the same way as the children’s cartoon Rugrats depicts growth as a function of height. But now “growing up” are just two words I attribute to this giant process, a metamorphosis beyond explanation.

I’m almost embarrassed to say that I thought myself grown up. Or at least closer to that side of the spectrum. But today, as someone was telling me a story, the shock of what he was saying drowned me in a pool of slimy, wet water. And then I felt a spark. The realization of what he told me completely shocked me–I had never, and would never have, considered what he was presenting as an explanation for certain other events that shall remain nameless. And even now I fear I’m floating on a cloud of disbelief, unsure of my surroundings or where the current is steering me.

But so it is. And here I am, trying to cope. Because inside, no matter how I try, I’m still a scared seven year old girl. Scared that the big, bad world will consumer her whole, with no one the wiser.  Invisible.

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