When I was sixteen, I spent all night alone in my room, in the dark, listening to Ashlee Simpson from my laptop, and crying in agreement every time she said “Good bye”. I was crying because my best friend stopped calling me as much as she used to, and the difference caught me by surprise, because I wasn’t quite ready for our relationship to end yet. It was very obvious to me what I was sad about, and it didn’t bother me whether or not my reaction to my situation was appropriate. All I knew was that I was sad, and that was enough to legitimate the Ashlee Simpson music and the tantrum that followed for hours afterward.
Now that I’m older, I look back at this memory fondly. It is an anecdote I remember with nostalgia because of its simplicity and clarity. I wish I could be sad without judgement – without looking at myself in anger, because I often believe that I am sad over things I shouldn’t be sad about – as if there was a hierarchy in pain that I should always put first, instead of my emotions. I wish I could easily pinpoint the source of my sadness as eloquently and as easily as I did when I was sixteen, because I had no shame nor regret over the decisions I made, because I wasn’t trying to justify anything to myself. I wish I could let myself be simply sad for one day and not hate myself for it, because when I was sixteen, I was so ready to accept that people have good and bad days – and time wasn’t something that could go to waste if you allowed yourself to have one sad, bad day — or a couple. Because there was always time to be happy, to move on.
Now that I’m older, I am so aware of time and the minutes I waste being sad. This search for happiness has consumed my life to the point that I have stopped allowing myself to feel the way I actually feel. As if only certain problems have legitimacy, as if tears can only be justified within certain situations.
I wish I could be irrational, and show my emotions to anyone who would listen, without being judged nor put to shame, and still be considered an adult.