I am fourteen years old. My bathroom sink is lined with deodorant and acne cream, the mirror covered in Post-it notes and stickers. I’ve cried upon getting F’s, and I hate people who don’t deserve it. I pretend to be something I’m not, afraid that who I really am would scare prospective friends away. I tell myself who cares what they think? But on nights when I can’t sleep, I despair at the thought that there is no one who understands me. I lie to myself often, and later regret it. I bite my nails, and daydream constantly. Sometimes I wake up with my self-esteem dragging on the floor, my pride in pieces, and just looking at my reflection in the mirror makes me cringe. I keep a diary, but even in those pages I cannot be completely truthful. I think about love, and limerence but I can’t bring myself to believe in them. I melt into walls, hoping no one will notice me.
So entirely typical.
Already, I want to grow up. I want to cram for college midterms and work a part-time job to pay rent. I want to save up and buy a SmartCar (perferably taxicab yellow) and a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan with peeling paint, green apliances and letters from the 80’s stuck in the walls. I want to share it with a finicky, sushi-eating Korean guitarist and a black, sanguine cat. I want to be an intern in an investment bank, and adopt children with wide-open arms and faraway eyes.
They tell me these are the best years of life. Adolescence? Someday I might believe such a prospect, but today it seems downright ridiculous. I am too young to be taken seriously, but too old to live carelessly. Teetering in a phase that makes no sense at all.
Being part of such a limbo annoys me to no end. I like things to stay constant, right where they are. But now everything I know is swerving, changing, morphing from one day to the next. Flipping upside down, right side up. And why?
Too many variables for a definitive answer. So all I can do is wait.