Member-only story
I am young. but don’t tell me that I haven’t lived enough to feel things as deeply as you have.
Don’t patronize me.
Age is a tricky thing.
I’ve written a lot about birthdays — how I felt like each one marked another year where I didn’t accomplish as much as I wanted to; how each year made me less impressive in the eyes of society, that my accomplishments would no longer shine in the light of, “Wow, you’re so young!”
Since I was fifteen, I’ve felt like I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders.
Sometimes I wondered how exactly I got so burdened.
Was it the heaviness of expectations from my family (and more importantly, myself)?
Was it my old soul, the jaded part of me warring with naive idealist?
Was it the empath in me who understood the problems of others a little too much, who saw that everyone’s pain and mistakes only served to remind us that we are all just human?
Was it the trapped little girl in me who wanted so badly to grow up and make her own choices that she matured far before her peers?
Who knows.
Regardless, I get a little surprised oh! whenever someone finds out how old I am.
