Eleven

You have to understand that years twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen are all welling up inside of this seventeen--year-old, and they're all conflicting with each other. Twelve is totally overwhelmed and therefore scared shitless. Thirteen is moody, thinking this shouldn't have happened because obviously I'm the center of the universe and you all should know better. Fourteen is saying fuck. Over and over. Fifteen is the crying. Fifteen is always the crying. Sixteen is thinking of all the whatifs. Seventeen is done. Seventeen is exhausted and weary. Seventeen thinks all the other ages have their own benefits, but would really appreciate it if they would shut the fuck up for one goddamn second. Seventeen wants to be eighteen and away from all this. More than that, Seventeen really wishes she could just throw a tantrum like Ten and people would just be okay with that. 

"You do an actual polite-smile, but you’re fairly certain it’s drenched in a noticeable anxiety, because everything running through your veins right now is having a nerve-wracking effect on your internal world—it feels like when grade-school kids dump a bunch of paint together to make the color brown—your body’s just dumping any emotion it has until it finds the way you’re supposed to feel right now."

As collected as I seemed all day, I felt like the twelve-year-old. I wouldn't put a twelve-year-old in any situation without some sort of briefing.
Sometimes, I need to be treated with all the sensitivity with which one would handle a little girl. Why do I sound so fucking vulnerable?
I just... goddamn it. I'm going to sleep and I'm not waking up until noon tomorrow, and if I wake up in the dead of night again, I will break down and cry like a baby.