Of hearing about how teenagers have no legitimate problems, and how the only way they can simulate emotions is through their hormonal fluctuations.
Do not tell me that I’m too young to have experienced true pain.
Do not tell me that I’m too young to say that I’ve lived.
Do not tell me that I have never felt true pain or joy.
Do not tell me that I don’t know how to grieve, or that I don’t know the meaning of loss.
Do not tell me that I’ve never been in dark places, or that sadness is only a blip of teenage apathy.
Don’t tell me that the things I celebrate are not worth celebrating once you hit the “real world.”
Sure, this, in itself, is a fit of teenage angst. And, of course, nine out of ten things that matter now won’t matter anymore ten years down the road. But, the inescapable and inconvenient bitch of the matter is that I’m not living ten years from now. I’m living now. I have a small zit on my nose. The people around me are vexing. The world is gigantic and intimidating and terrifying. I’ve always had trouble believing it when people told me that the years would fly by, and now they’ve flown, and I haven’t the faintest clue what to do next. I’m exhilarated and afraid and strange, and future and past are fighting over my head. If there are feelings in the world that could be categorized as “real,” then I’ll bet you every paper clip in my pathetic wallet that I’m feeling every one of them right at this moment.
