Teenage Confessions

I keep promising myself to start writing daily again and then find myself running out of time. Time! As if I had less than before, or more, when there has always been the same number of hours in each day. I do have more time now, but I am also occupying it with other things. Quality time with Boy. Making dinner. Watching Mad Men or Girls. Sleeping.

I am 27 years old now and I feel the same as I have felt for awhile. It has finally dawned on me that the age we are has no relation to how we should feel, or how we are meant to feel. Twenty years ago, I looked forward to sixteen and anticipated the best year of my life. Eleven years ago, I was sixteen and disappointed. Not with all things, but with the things I had imagined I would be and have at that age. I thought that life would be like it was for the Wakefield twins in Sweet Valley High--not that I was into parties or had much interaction with boys, being in an all girls' high school--no, I thought I would be busy having fun, being young. I thought things would be carefree and that having a boyfriend equated to happiness.

At sixteen, I had a nice home life and great friends. By then I had already gone past my two slightly romantic interests that would not be followed for about a decade. I would write poetry in bed late at night to express my frustration, or confusion, or any emotion that came to mind. I was not unhappy. But I wasn't happy. I was conflicted. I was dissatisfied.

Looking back now, I know nothing was wrong then, and that I was just going through the (e)motions of adolescence. The main difference between me and the typical teenager, however, was that I had an older parent whom I cared for immensely, and I harboured a constant fear that something would happen to him. This fear, while preventing me from partaking in every social event (I recall few existing anyway), also drove me to spend as much time at home with him as possible. And now that he has been gone for almost five months, I am thankful...and not remorseful in the least.

I can't remember everything, but I do remember sitting in the kitchen and watching TV together, or years later, watching something while he read a book I recommended, in a language that wasn't his own; I remember pizza nights when my mom would have work functions in the evening, coupled with a rented movie from Blockbuster, and possibly some Coca Cola. I remember sharing store-bought apple pie, his favourite dessert (he would save me his crust), or making tea (he always wanted it sweetened and milky the way I did). I remember changing his mind about cinnamon (which he used to despise) when I introduced him to chai lattes. I remember watching The Simpsons and rushing him to come see the opening couch sequence, which he loved. Or distracting him from the sight of any ripped jeans on celebrities in teen award shows.

I have recently come to the realization that I will have to go through the rest of my life without any more moments together, and it saddens me. That I have already experienced every possible interaction with Giagi is at times unbearable to think. I will always be grateful for the time I had with him, and I will always feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have had him for a father. I will never stop missing him.