Teenagers Scare the Living Shit Out of Me. Sometimes.

Hello, faithful readers. I just wanted to stop by today to share with you my latest piece written for the creative nonfic class I’m auditing. The prof said she wouldn’t change a word, so I figured I’d just copy it (almost) verbatim for your enjoyment. Here it is:

 

My Chemical Romance have a song called “Teenagers,” in which they state that “all teenagers scare the living shit out of me.” I was first introduced to the band through this song by my ex-girlfriend about half a year ago., and it was quite obvious to me that the lyrics were a statement on modern society and the gap between younger and older citizens. In the eyes of MCR, teenagers are not people to be afraid of. This made sense to me. I’ve been around enough teenagers in my life. Hell, I’m pretty sure I was one at some point. Annoying, yes, but frightening? I thought not—until my experiences with the aforementioned psycho ex.

I won’t go into too much detail here, but suffice it to say that she was—and probably still is—certifiably insane. (No, I’m not bitter. Just stating a fact.) After my time dating her—a seemingly endless roller-coaster ride of ups and downs—I became afraid of teenagers. Did I mention she was one? Eighteen years and four days of age when we first hooked up—although she had me absolutely convinced she was older. What can I say? I’m a sucker.

There were good times, true, but these were overshadowed by the bouts of depression and suicidal tendencies for which she served as a catalyst. In the months since, however, I’ve been spending a lot of time online. I’ve made a lot of new friends there, about a dozen of whom are, like me, fans of My Chemical Romance. The band being who and what they are, the majority of these fans are in their teenage years, and something I’ve come to discover in this time I’ve spent chatting with them is that my earlier observations were correct. They can be annoying (but, who isn’t at some point?), but scary? Just because of their age? No.

As a matter of fact, one of these online friends has been going through some problems involving her mother’s health and her own, as well as some of the people in her life. I’ve found myself recently serving as a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic ear, an advisor, a sage or mentor, if you will. It’s a wonderful feeling, being able to help people through the turbulent years of puberty with advice regarding problems that are quite reminiscent of those I remember so well from my own youth.

People have told me I should become a teacher. Teachers not only spout facts and enlighten people about the ways of the world but also influence their students’ lives. I’ve always countered with the argument that I am not a people person. It’s not in my idiom to help others. I’m much better at tearing down than building up. Unfortunately, experience negates this self-perception. Apparently, now I’m a fucking psychotherapist. Well, not exactly, but you catch my drift.

I’m influencing the lives of young people, helping them better themselves and their situations with carefully offered advice—or at least an ability to listen. It sucks, really, but, oddly—and don’t let the word get out, because I have a reputation to maintain—it actually makes me feel good, makes me feel like I’m making a positive difference in the world.

My plans for some time now have been to attend Portland State University in the fall and major in anthropology and linguistics—two very fascinating fields that are not only immensely helpful to my writing career but also allow for interesting research careers themselves. Now I’m having second thoughts. I love language, I love writing, and—God help me—I love making a positive difference in the lives of others. I’m considering declaring myself as an English major instead, with the goal of becoming an instructor at the community college or—even worse—high school level, trying to be the kind of teacher I never had when I was a teenager, the kind who cares—not only about the subject he teaches but also about the well-being of his students.

Fuck me. I’ve gone out of my mind. I know it. But I have come to some very positive conclusions about my possible role in this world, and I’ve also realized that not “all teenagers scare the living shit out of me.” Only the psychotic ones do.