On December 13th, 2023, I embarked on a deep dive into my Instagram archives.
I scrolled through countless pictures of parties and boys – counting my smiles and the friends I don’t speak with anymore. I couldn’t help but notice that my middle school uniform looked wrong on my thirteen-year-old body: the burgundy kilt was rolled too many times, creating a bulge that hung off of my hips and revealing the forest green socks that I pulled up to my thighs every day. I held a pale pink vape in my manicured hands, showcasing my ever-present smile for the camera.
Back at school, I told my roommates about my adventures, relishing in their faces of shock when I matched each story to an age. I would laugh and say, “I was just crazy when I was thirteen. Doing things I definitely shouldn’t have been doing.” Thy, my best friend at Berkeley, would rest her head on my shoulder as she tapped through the old Instagram stories. “You look so…old,” she said. I did look old. Older than thirteen. Maybe even older than I look now.
Before I left for my 6:00 AM flight, I went to take a shower. Grabbing my shampoo bottles and stepping into the communal washrooms, I kept the lights off. No one on my floor was awake yet. I like the dark. As the water hit my face and pounded on my bare back, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Thy had said. I did look old at thirteen. I wrapped myself in my towel and slid my phone off the rack, my fingers clicking rapidly at the keys.
I opened the notes app and started a new page, headlining it,
“THINGS I WISH I COULD SAY TO MY THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD SELF:”
But we can get back to the bullet points later.
I’ve come back to this list often since creating it. Waiting for my flight to take off, laying in my childhood bedroom, sitting shotgun while my dad drives me home. It’s almost as if I need to keep reminding myself to stay true. It’s almost as if being back in my hometown will pull me back into the same old patterns. It feels strange, being home for the holidays. Everything looks the same, and it’s like I never left.
Everyone talks about how much you’re supposed to grow in your first semester of college, but I never really got it until I landed back in my hometown. I see myself everywhere; curled in the corner of my local Starbucks scribbling in a notebook, stumbling down King St in my highest heels, on the floor of my best friend’s bathroom crying over a boy who would never really love me. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of the boundless love and warmth my hometown has fostered; yet, I can’t seem to shake the face of the girl I was before. A girl that I can’t help but be a little embarrassed of — and a little disgusted by. She’s become a liability, dirt I have to remember to scrub my skin clean of.
On New Year’s Eve, I threw a party. I invited everyone I loved in the country, which was, admittedly, quite a few people. I handed out champagne flutes like candy, smiled brightly at my guests, and very loosely kept track of the guest list. I floated around, talking and flirting until my throat dried from my endless chatter. Ten minutes to midnight, someone tapped me on the shoulder with a little more distress than I was anticipating encountering that night.
“Do you know them? I feel like there are a lot of people in the lobby.” My friend Tiffaney yelled in my ear, her speech barely comprehensible over the music booming from the speakers. She pointed towards the sudden crowd of bodies near the door, imploring me to weave between my guests and make my way to the front.
I listened intently as the tension grew, the unfamiliar boys forcing themselves in despite the protests of my closest friends.
“Yeah, man. Pull up, it’s fine, she’s cool.” One of the strangers said on the phone. I couldn’t make out their faces in the dark, but I knew they hadn’t been invited by the way they attempted to push through the crowd, avoiding my gaze. I planted myself in front of one of them, placing my hand firmly on his chest.
“Hi. I’m sorry, but you have to leave. This is my house. I don’t think we know each other.” I slurred, attempting to sound authoritative through the blur of my clear intoxication.
“No, no, Alyssa, we do know each other. You know me.” The boy replied, laughing over my confusion.
“Fine, then. What’s my last name?” I asked, playing their game, almost sure I would win.
“Zhang,” they all said in unison, the confidence in their answer almost knocking me over.
What the fuck?
Michael, an old friend of mine, placed a firm hand on my back and snapped me out of my daze. “Alyssa. We do know them. We go way back, remember?” he explained, attempting to restore a little order to a precarious situation.
I looked at him, then back at the boys, finally able to make out their faces.
“Alex’s Halloween party? 2020?” One of them said, attempting to jog my memory.
“I watched you jump off the bluffs that one summer, remember? You used to be so insane.” another chimed, chuckling over the memory.
Panic set in as I realized that we did know each other. At least, we knew each other at some point. They knew me. But still, they weren’t invited. “Oh my god, I haven’t seen you guys in years,” I said to them, smiling a little. I thought about letting them stay. After all, we did go way back. But I’ve seen this kind of thing before. I can see it so clearly.
I let them stay. I entertain them like a good host. I hand them champagne and dance and flirt. They get too close and they get too wild, they insist upon prying each of my doors open and lighting cigarettes on my stove. I let them. It’s cool. I’m cool.
I thought about it, I really did. But I don’t think I’m as cool as I was at thirteen.
“I’m sorry that you came all this way, but you still have to leave. I’m sorry! It isn’t personal, it’s just that I didn’t say it was okay for you to come.” I said as I backed them into the lobby, opening the front door for them.
I turned my back as I allowed my most assertive friends to form a wall between me and them, giggling at the cacophony of “bros” and grunts as the door shut behind them. I swung my arms around my friends as we counted down to the new year, throwing our hands in the air in celebration.
I think the whole debacle gave me some sense of clarity, or maybe the new year, new me bullshit is at least a little true, because when I think about my thirteen-year-old self now, the disgust is a little quieter. I don’t think I’ve been fair. Life was hard. Everything was scary. Everything was embarrassing. I played right into my reputation, sexualizing myself and welcoming even the most negative of attention because it was the only love I had ever known. Plus, it’s weird to hate a thirteen-year-old girl. A girl who is still me.
I opened my notes app once again as I let my body hit my mattress once everyone had left, letting the words soak into my skin. I read:
- you were so blatantly and publicly sexualized when you were too young and too vulnerable to know any better
- you cannot stop being kind
- you are going to be valued for more than just sex one day
- you are smart and kind and beautiful
- you do not need sexual validation to feel pretty
- not everything has to be public
- do not take disrespect for compliments
- you are allowed to feel violated
- you are not crazy
I don’t think I could have ever imagined, at thirteen, that I would be where I am now. I wanted to grow up so badly, but I had no idea what being grown up would look like. I still don’t. But I think thirteen year old me would be happy with how everything worked out. I find a little comfort in how different I’ve become, because it means that in a couple of years, I’ll be different again. Everything that is so seemingly immovable and overwhelming right now might go quiet. I guess above all, I would want to tell thirteen-year-old me that there will be a day where she will experience life in a way that is incomprehensible to her right now, and that is a good thing.