Misunderstood

Let’s be honest, “you don’t know what it’s like to be like me,” and I am most definitely “stronger than yesterday.” This is sort of a “story of a girl who cried a river” but the only thing she drowned were her sorrows on a tear-stained pillowcase. I seemed to forget that “big girls don’t cry” when the tears were always bubbling just below the surface, waiting for the next rejection from a crush or spite from a best friend. Man, “why’d you have to go and make things so complicated?”

I am going to warn you right now that Nickelback is on this playlist. Listen, we all make mistakes. We grow, we learn, we make better choices. But this is a story about teenage angst, and teenagers never make good decisions. In any case, if you need to leave now, at least give me a heart tap down below for my good ole fashioned honesty. Thanks in advance.

So, I am sitting in a shitty Honda from the early 2000s with my crush who has placed himself safely in the “friend zone” and it’s just an “ordinary day” but my heart is breaking. I love this guy. At least the version of love I am working with at the time, and he is kind. He knows I am struggling. Though undiagnosed at the time, we would later find out that much of my teenage angst was lit on fire with anxiety and depression. I was a dumpster fire before that was a thing. A burned Yellowcard CD is the soundtrack and I constantly wonder how they wrote an entire album all about me? He drives me home and gives me a hug. I can feel the strength of his biceps and I am begging him to fall in love with me. Can I just get one kiss?

Defeated, I go inside and head to the basement to take a shower. I grew up in an old farmhouse so the shower situation is bleak but it paints a nice background for my hopelessness. Mismatched rugs litter a red-painted cement floor. A CD player is sitting precariously on the washing machine and you have to move it every time you want to do a load of laundry. I check to see what’s spinning and find comfort in P!nk staring back at me. This is the part where I take all of the sadness and infuse it with some rage. It’s a delightful combination when you add a touch of adolescent hormones and a splash of ego.

I sing at the top of my lungs while hot water stings my skin. I can’t tell if there are tears mixed with the water running down my face, but it doesn’t matter, I’m safe here. After I have sucked every last drop of hot water out of the faucet, I dry off and head upstairs for dinner.

“How was your day?” my parents ask.

“Fine.” I reply. It’s not like they would understand if I tried to explain it to them.

I eat a full plate of spaghetti before grabbing a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and placing myself firmly on the couch to watch TV with my dad. God, I miss that metabolism. We watch Friends and Seinfeld and I head to bed as soon as the late-night talk shows take over the airways. When I get to my room, I fall asleep to the soft sadness of Ben Folds and wonder if I’ll be able to face the sun tomorrow.

My alarm goes off promptly at 7 a.m. and I head downstairs for a bowl of Frosted Flakes. I get ready for school in roughly 7 minutes by throwing my hair in a pony tail, putting on sweatpants inside out and a nice snug camisole before jumping into my car. I turn on the radio and hear Fefe Dobson reminding me that “if you’re ready to be my ev-er-y-thing” and see it through this time, I’m ready, but I’m not here for your bullshit. (I paraphrased that a bit…)

I march into school with a full tank of confidence, find my best friends, and catch up on everything we've missed in the 12 hours since we last saw each other.

Music was both the angel and the devil on my shoulder. She carried me through the bad times, dusted off my shoulders as I prepared to fight again, and made my heart burst with love (or lust) at all the right moments. Let’s be real, my love for music has only gotten stronger over the years and though my playlists have moved beyond teenage angst, every once in awhile I find myself searching Dashboard Confessionals in Apple Music and just like that, I’m 15 again.