The advent of adolescence brought with it a massive shift in my perspective. I began to see the shades of grey in everything around me, as opposed to viewing the world through a singularly black and white lens. It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time, like I’d had some sort of grand epiphany and crossed over to some unspoken ‘Other Side’, where I could make my own judgements and feel my own emotions, independent of external influences. Well, more or less independent, anyway.
I think the most frightening part was how I began to see the flaws of the people I loved, including my parents. I think it was then that it dawned on me that we’re all flawed, imperfect beings. All of us. And while it was ridiculously frightening to see my parents’ imperfections, it was also comforting. In a bizarre, twisted way, it made it easier to come to terms with the more unpleasant decisions they made. Particularly those regarding me. I think it was the acceptance of those flaws that helped me finally stop beating myself up about my own. Maybe at some point it even helped me understand them.
Once in a while, I have these rare moments of lucidity when I can step into their shoes and see myself from their eyes before I snap right back into my own body and return to my drugged stupor of adolescent self-absorbedness.
Times like these, I can see their fears. Their insecurities. They see a world of potential in me, and they’re terrified I’ll never realise it. They see all that I can be, and more. They see worst case scenarios unfolding before their eyes. They see me never amounting to anything. I can’t imagine how helpless they must feel when they see me wasting it all. Pissing it all away. Sometimes, I wonder if they blame themselves. Sometimes, I wonder if they ask themselves where they went wrong. They gave me everything they could. And more.
It’s not you. It’s me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Maybe that’s why they lash out at me sometimes. I’m beginning to realise that harshness might just be nothing more than a garbled translation of their love for me. They’re only human.
Don’t blame them for their terrible communication skills when yours aren’t any better, you little hypocrite.
It’s so easy to sit there and play the blame game. So easy to sit there and label yourself as the wounded, misunderstood teenager. So easy to just wallow in self pity because you’re young and stupid. So easy to forget that not everyone has someone watching over them. Looking out for them. Worrying about them. Loving them despite their flaws.
And I say this now, but I know that in a few hours, I’ll be back in my safe little bubble of selfishness and teenage rebellion. Good thing I penned it down before it faded away.
I think the most frightening part was how I began to see the flaws of the people I loved, including my parents. I think it was then that it dawned on me that we’re all flawed, imperfect beings. All of us. And while it was ridiculously frightening to see my parents’ imperfections, it was also comforting. In a bizarre, twisted way, it made it easier to come to terms with the more unpleasant decisions they made. Particularly those regarding me. I think it was the acceptance of those flaws that helped me finally stop beating myself up about my own. Maybe at some point it even helped me understand them.
Once in a while, I have these rare moments of lucidity when I can step into their shoes and see myself from their eyes before I snap right back into my own body and return to my drugged stupor of adolescent self-absorbedness.
Times like these, I can see their fears. Their insecurities. They see a world of potential in me, and they’re terrified I’ll never realise it. They see all that I can be, and more. They see worst case scenarios unfolding before their eyes. They see me never amounting to anything. I can’t imagine how helpless they must feel when they see me wasting it all. Pissing it all away. Sometimes, I wonder if they blame themselves. Sometimes, I wonder if they ask themselves where they went wrong. They gave me everything they could. And more.
It’s not you. It’s me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Maybe that’s why they lash out at me sometimes. I’m beginning to realise that harshness might just be nothing more than a garbled translation of their love for me. They’re only human.
Don’t blame them for their terrible communication skills when yours aren’t any better, you little hypocrite.
It’s so easy to sit there and play the blame game. So easy to sit there and label yourself as the wounded, misunderstood teenager. So easy to just wallow in self pity because you’re young and stupid. So easy to forget that not everyone has someone watching over them. Looking out for them. Worrying about them. Loving them despite their flaws.
And I say this now, but I know that in a few hours, I’ll be back in my safe little bubble of selfishness and teenage rebellion. Good thing I penned it down before it faded away.
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