One of the most interesting things I’ve noticed about growing up, is that a lot of teenagers are amazing actors. I know a lot of people are like, “I can’t act worth anything,” but many of us do each day. When you laugh instead of cry; when you say you are fine, when asked how you are; when you pretend something is no big deal, when really, it meant everything to you; when you turn your head to the side, so that they can’t see the tears.
Is it just me? By the way, no. I am not one of those kids who legitimately has no one on their side, and has loads of backstabbing friends. I actually happen to think the group of people that I am close with are amazing. Then again, perhaps that’s why it stings sometimes. You know, when you love someone so much that you don’t want to hurt them, and you feel like you could lose them at any moment. I mean, then what would happen? Perhaps some things are just meant to be kept a secret, meant to be hidden, meant to drive you insane.
I feel alone a lot. Sometimes I couldn’t even tell you why. Something is missing- I just don’t know what. It’s kind of funny too. I mean, you would think that those whom are super close to you would recognize when you are faking something, or when you are hiding the truth. After all, I’m a horrible liar.

But a great actress.

My parents for example, to give them some credit, a couple times they have asked me what’s wrong. I just tell them that I don’t want to talk about it- and they don’t push it. Normally, I can tell my parents anything, and believe me, they have gotten an earful. I look back now, and shutter as to the things that came out of my mouth.

I told my dad once, attempting to make it as casual as possible. I pretended it was something that my OCD or anxiety would get stuck on (typically topics that I understand are okay, but I obsessively talk about them because I feel that I have too). Maybe that’s why I’m good at hiding things. I always did weird things as a child. I did things I knew were strange, and initially always tried to hide it from my parents. I would count, and repeat; I had to tap my bedroom door a certain number of times, in the right area; I had to recite things in my head over and over. My big sister would make fun of me- and so I used to cry myself to sleep. When I close my eyes, I can still hear her saying, “Hey, you’re going to die if you don’t wash your hands another time,” and other things like that. She always said it in a loud voice too, so everyone in my house could hear her.  I laid in my mother’s arms, crying my heart out when I was sixteen years old. I wanted to die. I know I annoyed a lot of people- I think I still do sometimes; that’s why me being a generally anxious person is just considered “normal” in my household.

That’s probably why my dad sort of rejected my fears, telling me that I was worrying too much. When am I not worrying too much? When is something that I’m actually feeling accepted as real? When will they understand that everything I tell them is not connected to my anxiety? I guess now I just never feel as if anything they hear me say is concrete- or sincere.

Why do parents always think they know absolutely everything about their children? It’s like they never even stop to consider that we are in fact actually people, experiencing life and making mistakes- because all we are, are their children. Of course with all of that as well, comes the fact that we have to develop their views and live out their vision for us- or we’re automatically doing it wrong. Why would we have opinions and wants of our own? We’re not people…just their children.

My mother would be the prime example of this. Why would I not want to do an activity that she thought I would enjoy? Why would I not want to watch the movie that she thought I would love? Why would I want to spend my weekends with friends rather than with her? Or in particular, why am I upset? “Did that boy you like text you something mean?”

No mom. He didn’t text me at all. That’s just the thing. He didn’t text me at all.

But you know, because parents think they know everything about you- I’ll eventually have a crush on another guy, and I never liked the first one anyways apparently.

Don’t get me wrong I do have crushes on guys. They always reject me- but I do like them. I had the biggest crush on one last semester. I’m not even sure why I liked him so much. We did a project together- he gave me butterflies. His smile and tiny laugh he always added on at the end of sentences always sent shivers of something I can’t explain down my spine. He was awkward and brilliant- the dork of my dreams. He played soccer, loved to read, loved video games, loved Pokémon, and had a passion for math. He would squint his eyes a bit when he would talk to me, as if he needed glasses but forgot them at home. He always smelled really good, and seemed like such a sweetheart. I think he might have been shy, he never really talked to the kids around him, but instead had a close group of friends that he talked about.

He sat next to me all school year- so, why I decided to like him the last few weeks of school? I have no idea. Or, maybe I do. Not a reason as to why I like him now all of a sudden per say, but rather why I wanted something to come from it so badly perhaps. I do have a reason- but, it scares me. It’s wrong in every way.

“He didn’t text you because you never talked to him until the last few days of school. Find a crush before the end of the semester next time- then maybe something will happen,” my parents told me.

I did have a crush on someone all semester though. They just didn’t know about it. If they did, they would kill me. But my goodness was she gorgeous! Yeah…she. That’s why it’s wrong. And that’s why it’s eating me alive. I mean- it’s not the first crush I’ve had on a girl, but that fact just makes the situation worse.

She had light brown hair, and bright blue eyes. She liked to wear beanies and red lipstick. She wore converse with every outfit. Her skin was soft, and I think about her lips before I fall asleep some nights. They looked kissable, and she had the cutest little face ever. She’s a writer like myself, and we both want to grow up and go into the same career field. Her laugh made me giddy and warm; because I know it’s wrong. She would sit next to me a lot – and each time I never realized I was actually holding my breath. She gave me butterflies. I just always wanted to be near her. “I love your hair!” she would giggle, as she twirled a strand around her finger. “Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked me one day.

“Nope. Never have for some reason.” I answered. “You?”

“I’m not really into guys.” She shrugged. “Are you-like, I don’t mean to be like rude or anything. You like guys?”
I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to be me- I wanted to be honest. Yes, I do- but I’d also do just about anything right now to be able to go out with you. Just tell her you’re bi! Just be honest for once. Just see what happens.

But it’s wrong- and scary, and so many people would hate me. I mean, I hate myself half the time.
So, perhaps that’s how we got here. “What’s wrong?” my parents will ask me.

“He didn’t text me.” I’ll repeat.

To be honest although I really liked him, I could tell nothing was going to come from it. It never does, but I could pretend in my head that we had something for a while. Maybe if a guy could distract me, then I could prove to myself that this is just a phase. I’ll laugh about it even, in a few years, because what was I thinking? I only like guys.

Yet while I miss the idea of him- I miss her presence. I miss her smile, and her giggles in my ear. I miss her jokes and the conversations we had. I miss the sparkle in her eyes, and the way she made me feel.

“What’s wrong?” my parents will ask me.
“My stomach just hurts.” I will answer.

It’s so wrong it hurts. I’ve grown up to be something that I never envisioned, and to say the word out loud burns my tongue. I’m so confused- and somehow I feel like this is how it’s always going to be.

I wish I still had a chance with her- even if it was secretly.
Because it’s been “just a phase” for a while now, and I’m great at hiding things. I’m not a person remember, just my parents “child”. I will forever be molded by their eyes and held by their authority restraints.

Because if I’ve learned one thing from growing up, it’s that I’m a horrible liar – but an excellent actress; and just when I think I’ve found myself, I start to lose it again.