Pop Punk Therapy (Kristen’s Version)

Kristen Rosasco

I. THIRTY, FLIRTY, AND DEEPLY UNWELL

They told me thirty would feel like

freedom—

like a crisp Chardonnay in an overpriced glass,

like a mortgage,

like knees that don’t audibly crack

when you squat down to pick up the crumbs

of your twenty-something mistakes.

But I’m here in my room—

a room that is covered in crumbs even though there is a strict no food upstairs rule,

A room that eerily resembles my teenage bedroom that thankfully still only lives in my memory

Well, sort of… *gestures vaguely*

I’m still having a mental breakdown in my underwear

Mascara coated tears still streaming down my cheeks

and since being a mom doesn’t leave much room for literally anything else

I’m still standing in front of a dusty mirror

wearing a t-shirt that says

“I PAUSED MY ANIME FOR THIS?”

staring at my reflection and screaming—

“If you could see that I’m the one who understands you!”

with the emotional stability

of a raccoon in a thunderstorm.

(Because even I don’t understand myself anymore…)

⸻

II. THE SACRED RITUAL OF REGRESSION

There’s a method to the madness.

First, I light a candle that smells like

“Cozy Cabin”

(a lie. I live in messy, stained suburban hellascape

with a leaky faucet,

two major appliances that don’t work,

and 3 tiny roommates who call me cringe).

Then, I open Spotify like it’s the Ark of the Covenant,

search: TAYLOR SWIFT OG ERA,

and prepare to summon

my inner dramatic-ass teen

who thought wearing Converse to prom

was an act of social rebellion

on par with the Boston Tea Party.

You Belong With Me begins.

And suddenly, I’m fourteen again,

mad at a boy who never looked at me,

even though I definitely

wrote him a very subtle poem called

“your eyes are like the apocalypse

but hotter.”

I press play.

I ascend.

I time travel via bridge.

“She wears short skirts / I wear depression”

or whatever the lyric is.

Same vibe.

⸻

III. THE DANCE FLOOR IS LAVA (AND ALSO CARPETED)

Cue the chaos.

My body moves with the grace

of a drunk muppet.

Arms flailing like I’m signaling

a plane to land in my driveway.

I knock over a glass of LaCroix—

R.I.P. key lime,

you were too carbonated for this world.

And yet,

in the disarray,

something holy happens.

A divine possession.

Like I’m being exorcised

of all the garbage thoughts

that say,

“how’s married life treating you,”

“when are you having more kids,”

“your LinkedIn is embarrassing,”

“your mom thinks poetry isn’t a real career.”

And in this sacred movement,

this messy, definitely nowhere near middle-aged interpretive flailing,

I am not behind.

I am not broken.

I am not a punchline

at the Thanksgiving table.

I am the main character.

I am the moment.

I am her.

⸻

IV. EXISTENTIAL BRIDGE

But then, inevitably,

the song ends.

The silence creeps in

like a landlord on the first of the month.

I sit on the floor,

wrap up in an old blanket that smells like

despair and dry shampoo,

wondering why

dancing to a pop song

is the closest I’ve come to

inner peace

in four fiscal quarters.

Maybe it’s because

we were raised on

rom-coms and repression,

so we have to self-soothe

with bridge-builds and choruses

to remember who we are.

Maybe Taylor Swift

is cheaper than therapy

and twice as effective.

Maybe healing

doesn’t look like yoga retreats

and perfectly curated morning routines

with matcha and “Daily Stoic” readings—

maybe healing is

blasting blondie

at full volume

while ugly-crying in a bath towel,

because the only person

who really understands you

is 2009 Taylor

and the backup vocals

you sang into your hairbrush

when you still believed in magic.

⸻

V. CLOSING CREDITS: A MIDLIFE MELODRAMA

So yeah.

I’m thirty.

I still don’t eat my vegetables and I cry at commercials.

I’ve googled “how to get your life together”

more times than I’ve called my dentist.

I still feel like I’m fifteen.

But tonight,

I danced.

I shook off the shame.

I made peace with my ghosts

in four-four time.

And if that makes me ridiculous—

a grown woman

in mismatched socks

finding salvation in a pop song—

then so be it.

Because somewhere out there,

someone’s blasting All Too Well (10 Minute Version)

with a bottle of Merlot and a full-on breakdown.

And I salute them.

And I join them.

And I press repeat.

More from Kristen Rosasco ↓

• @poetryandpatchouli on Instagram
• Her upcoming anthology, Poetry and Patchouli, is out soon

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