So lately I’ve been going through some of my (very) old diaries and I just felt sorry for myself. I wish that at the time I had someone – an actual person – to explain to me everything that I was going through, someone who was not too old to call me childish, yet not too young to be as clueless as I was.
So one of the anecdotes I wrote about was of a friend in high school who convinced her other friend not to smoke by saying, “If you smoke, I won’t be friends with you again.”
I found the story interesting as I told myself that if I said that to a friend, they’ll probably smoke double to speed up the process of not being friends with me.
And if I were the princess held by the turtle -not dragon – in supermario, he would probably finish off all the stages, reach the turtle and pay him double to keep me locked up. That’s if he never ran in the opposite direction to begin with.
So yeah, my self esteem was pretty low, and to be honest enough I still think that way about myself to some extent; the only difference being, I really stopped caring about the whole “fitting in” considering that , figuratively, my view from the locked tower is quite awesome, and the dragon – or turtle (or just my introverted nature)- keeps people away so I have enough time to read, write and work on my own things.
But I still wish I had an older and wiser “me” to explain exactly what was going on with me at various parts of my life. Someone who would tell me to stop overdramatizing everything and take things at face values.
But then someone commented that sometimes it’s the cluelessness that makes some experiences so rich and beautiful. Because rationalizing and putting psycholabels on our sentiments and feelings is what dries them out, making them like those pieces of mangoes my grandmother used to leave out in the sun to make acharis.
And that’s why growing up is no longer fun.
So what’s your opinion on the matter?
Regardless of how your childhood and teenage years turned out, one message remains true, and that is,