Teaching Kids to Cry

At the age of eight, I knew more about math than I did about my mom. I could add numbers together, but I could never figure out why she would scream and shout for no apparent reason. Subtraction came easily, but knowing how to navigate the turbulent waters of my mother’s constant mood swings – and all of the emotional turmoil that it entailed? Definitely harder than taking apart a simple sentence or memorizing my multiplication tables.

Growing Up

In less than a week, I’ll be seventeen.

I’ve always been independent. As a toddler, I played with my toys alone. In middle school, books came before drama and socializing. Even now, in high school, I like to keep a part of myself closed off from others – not because I’m a misanthrope, but because I have no friends there are things that I’m not quite comfortable sharing. I’m sure everyone knows how that feels.

But in the past couple of years, I’ve opened up a lot. To the readers of this blog, to my close friends in real life, and even to myself, to an extent. A lot has happened this year, especially, that has forced me to reevaluate my perspective of people and of life.

And right when I’m reaching a steady spot, things change.