On the morning I turned 26, I woke up and couldn’t hear out of one ear. The second I’m the slightest bit run down, my ears seem to give out. It’s been happening since I was a baby when the doctors told my mum that I have tiny ear canals. It’s stupid really. I vowed to a friend recently that this will be the year I get into protecting my hearing, realising going to all these gigs without ear plugs will catch up at some point, and as I sleep through my alarm again, muffled my good ear as I sleep on my left side, that vow holds tighter.
This year, I can’t seem to get out of bed. As I turned 25, the opposite was true. I was waking frantically early. At 7am, I’d be doing some yoga video or speed walking down the hill to the lido, wondering how early is too early to call someone to chat. I spent the morning of that birthday balanced on one leg. Now I can’t seem to greet the day without texting my mum to say, “I woke up to see the clock turn 7:45. Happy birthday to me! Going to snooze then I’ll facetime.” My therapist said maybe that’s a good thing, no longer in fight or flight. But I told her that freeze doesn’t feel so good either. I’d rather wake, eager, read and drink coffee in bed then stretch and seize the day.
I set four alarms now, creeping the volume up and up, wondering if my housemates are frustrated by Dolly Parton’s ‘Baby I’m Burning’ playing on repeat as I doze through. I’ve tried a few songs lately; ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ which reminds me of my friend Dale. ‘Rinse Me Down’ which reminds me of me, age 15. ‘And She Was’, which reminds me of late January and a great day out with Beth and Melissa. This Dolly song reminds me of university, in a sweet, rose-tinted way, which is exactly how I’d like to start my day, if I could hear it.
When I do eventually get up, I put on a new robe, given to me by Ele the night before in a beautiful silk bag that matches and alongside some red peonies which are sat proudly in a vase. “I think it’s one of my top three all time presents” I tell my mum when I facetime, stroking the material. On the call, I sit cross legged on my bed, in exactly the same position as I did when I turned 22, alone in lockdown. My hair was blonde then and my bed was in Manchester, but as I swing my head side to side, slightly dancing as my parents sing ‘Happy Birthday’, there’s déjà vu. There’s déjà vu for every birthday ever, remembering every year my Grandma would call and sing, every year I called her to return the song, and every year since she’s gone that my family have held up the habit. “Thank youuuu” I say at the end, extending the ooo sound as I always have and always will do.
I make my coffee slow and attempt to make it perfect. “I want to enjoy the coffee slowly, or I won’t have one at all.” I wrote that in August and I think about it every day as it settled into my life not just as a liner but as a fact. If there’s no time, the coffee machine, which I got when I turned 23, stays off. But today there is time. I heat my mug, I foam milk, I attempt latte art, and I cup the drink between my hands and sip slow. But I won’t finish it. I never do and neither does my mum. Instead, the dregs will sit there on my sink hoping to be drained while I’m too distracted doing my makeup. In there corner of the glass is a photo of child me. Every time I look at my face, I just look like myself. I’ve never noticed myself age, but at some point I stopped being her and even though I know I still am. Her, my mum, my sister. I’m all three.
When I put jewellery on, I’m Sophie. I’m her positive mixed metals stance, hoping to emulate her effortless stacking. Today, she’s at my door, down visiting from her adopted home after we parted ways from our university town. For the day, we’re 18, 19, 20 and 21 again. We’re combing over our history over pastries then Campari then wine. I never have to really tell her anything because I already have. So instead, we can get into motivations and causes and outcomes. It’s casual, loving analysis. I always leave her understanding me better.
“You know that sad quote, like ‘everyone I’ll ever love will know your name’? I’m like that but a nice version. Every date I go on I end up talking about you and all my friends.” I said that in the wine bar. I toss my other friends names out and she knows them, just as I know hers and they know mine though we’ve never met. Before my birthday, I’d thought I felt sad because I didn’t have a partner to be default excited on my behalf, or sort celebrations for me. But here is my best friend. We agreed on a wine within a second, we cut a pastry in half and shared it but I could’ve guessed from a mile off what she’d order, we belly laugh and take photobooth pictures to join the six or so others we have from the years past. I know by now that I’ll know her forever, I know by now that any partner I ever have will know her too. But I don’t need anyone else here right now, I have this day with her and it’s perfect.
I love the light dizziness wine leaves. As I wander from sophie to char, day to evening plans, I’m light and happy. I think about all the years I spent too anxious to drink, all the years I spent as a child wondering what I’d be like as an adult, all the years I spent as an adult wondering if I’d ever have fun again, and I smile at myself because here I am, tipsy, joyful, social. “You’ve not only returned to yourself, you’ve truly exceeded yourself,” Char says, toasting my recovery.
The chat gets heavy but not cloudy. I’m willing to acknowledge the way certain things from the last few years have stuck and will be stuck and horrible forever. That new Taylor Swift song will always be narrating what that man did to me, age 25. I will always wonder what I would be like now if I hadn’t been like that at 21. I will forever dance like how I danced on my 20th birthday, when I was friends with that girl and in love with that guy, both of who left horribly and have left something lingering in me. But as I talk about it over dinner, I talk about it with learning and wisdom in my voice. I catch all the years of therapy in my intonation, I catch Char there too as I suddenly sound like every piece of advice she’s given to me over the years and then I go quite to listen and get more. At 27, I’ll reflect on that too.
Later, when I finally get home, I jump in the shower. I lather myself in Rose Jam. I remember when I finally found the smell that I’d been searching for since I was 19 and first walked into burlesque rehearsals and was hit by a wall of Lush. I spent the years trying to pin point which note it was I liked and who it was the was smothered in it. I found it a few years back; rose, Noa, this shower gel. It’s my favourite scent.
When I do tarot, I sometimes feel like Nancy must know, feel it some how. When I do my hair, it’s all by Iv’s instruction. When I journal, every word I write is every book I’ve read, every film I’ve watched, every song I’ve ever liked and everyone I’ve ever loved. When I take my antidepressant, it’s every hurt and a hug given to me at 13, me at 21, me at 24, me now, me tomorrow. When I sleep, I’m 26 and I’m everything, everyone, every me.