June 3, 2009

I was sixteen when my world ended. Or began, it all depends on perspective. Everything up to that point was a fuzzy blur in my memory, another life to the world that meant nothing. As a sixteen-year-old, you’re expected to have ups and downs. You’re expected to cry and throw a fit, sneak out with boyfriends and misbehave. But I was empty. Not on the inside, no, not the way you’re thinking. On the inside… I’d like to think I was the same. I was sad, I was happy, I was nice, I was naughty, I was… everything. But I never showed it. At the age of sixteen was when it all fell apart.

I grew up a rich development in the suburbs of Seattle. My parents liked to think they had it all–the fancy house with the pristine kitchen, the car that had an incredible amount of horsepower that it never got the chance to display, the high-ranking white collar jobs, and me. In their eyes, I was an angel. I turned out how they intended originally. Just as my birth was planned years before I was born, my attitude was, as well. I was taught to listen to your elders. I was taught to never argue, to clean my room, to do my homework. And I did. I didn’t fight with them. I didn’t even consider it.

Even now, I can see bits of myself that have come out of the cliché “Society Child” mold. Whenever something doesn’t fit with the way I see things, I internally freak out. But I don’t protest, I don’t argue, I just walk away. That’s how my mother told me. When you feel an argument shaping, walk away, honey, cool off, it’ll all be okay. 

But it won’t. It really won’t.


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