Not so long ago, I was fifteen.
Not so long ago, I was a sophomore in high school.
Not so long ago, I didnāt have that many friends because no one liked me.
But then not so long ago, much to my surprise, I was able to befriend a lot of the popular girls in my year.
Not so long ago, I thought that being able to go out with my popular friends every weekend was the coolest, most amazing thing that would ever happen to me. I thought that would make my life so much better, I thought that it would finally make people see that I wasnāt just the loser who couldnāt keep her loud, nasty opinions to herself.
Not so long ago, I was actually proud that I was ātrainedā to drink beer at a young age (I was raised by men). I thought that my āabilityā to drink would gain me more friends and maybe, just maybe, Iād be one of those ācool girlsā with the neon lit profile pictures on Facebook.
Not so long ago, I thought I was finally starting to be hot shit.
I was troubled because I was used to not having friends and when I finally got some, I didnāt know how to act; I didnāt understand the importance of being myself. For the first time I was able to use my looks to get into bars and clubs. Not that I actually have ālooksā or whatever. I just look older than I actually am.
I was troubled because, that year, my grandfather was hospitalized for the first time in his entire life. He needed a heart bypass. And for the first time in my life, I saw him weak. I saw him scared. I saw him show emotions I never thought he could. And that made me weak, that made me scared.
I was troubled because the first legitimate relationship I ever had was going downhill right around the same time my grandpa was in the hospital. I was weak, I was scared, I was confused. Why did everything hurtful have to happen all at the same time?
The need to impress my popular friends; the pressure of having to be strong for my grandfather; the horrible feeling of losing the first person to ever care about meāit all took a toll on something I didnāt think was all that important at the time: my education.
For the first time ever, I started cramming my homework in the morning; I stopped studying for tests; I stopped caring about school. Because there were more important things I needed to worry about. Like my grandfather. Like my relationship. Like my popular friends.
So not so long ago, I was fifteen.
Not so long ago, I was troubled.
And not so long ago, I had already considered myself a failure not only in school, but in life as well.
And I didnāt do anything about it.
My mentality was like, Iām failing. So what? If I donāt think about it hard enough, maybe my problems will go away.
So I distracted myself with trying to climb further up the social ladder: I went to the clubs more, drank more, āsocializedā more.
I did all those things because I had problems.
I was neglecting my studies because I had problems. I had problems and my priorities were fucked up; myself < school < the need to impress my popular friends < my popular friendsā feelings/problems < my grandfather
I made myself look like I didnāt care about anything because I needed to look stronger than I actually was. I didnāt go to all those clubs and things because I wanted to, I went because I thought I needed to. I needed to go to these clubs so I could be there for my popular friends, so I could support them because they had problems with their families and their boyfriends/girlfriends too. I put everyone else before me. And that wasnāt good at all.
And I never went to class high nor did I drunk but, shit, at the time, Iām pretty sure that if I couldāve, I so totally wouldāve.
It wasnāt until the summer of my (first) junior year that I saw how shitty I made everything seem. I was sent to the guidanceĀ counselor at my high school during summer school because my mom started to realize how different I was. I wasnāt smiling, wasnāt making jokes; I wasnāt being Mandy.
And I realized it was because I was so tired. I was tired of taking care of everybody: of my friends, of my grandpa; I was either on the phone with one of my sobbing friends or I was on night watch at the hospital. Or both. And I didnāt realize how tired I actually was until I finally cried in front of my guidance counselor. I didnāt realize how out of shape I was, I didnāt realize how important it was to take care of yourself before you can take care of others.
I grew up a lot that year. I grew up even more the year after (but thatās a different story).Ā And you know what? If you were to ask me if I could take back all the mistakes I made when I was fifteen, all the times I went to those clubs, all the drinks I had, my answer would be no.
No, I wouldnāt take it all back. Why should I? Theyāre memories. I may have been troubled, but at one point or another, I had a good time. Iām pretty sure that Adele once said in one of her songs thatĀ āmistakes are memories made.ā And I believe that now.
No, I wouldnāt do it all again and change all the horrible things that happened. Because those events helped make me the person I am today.
(This is the first time Iām using this statement seriously but:) I regret nothing.
I consider myself lucky, to be honest. I went through things that not many people really get to go through until theyāre in college. And Iām grateful.Ā
I mean, yeah, I almost failed sophomore year; and yeah, I had to spend my summer in school to make up for the days I fell asleep in class; but so what? I was able to learn things from these experiences that school will never ever teach me. Not saying schooling isnāt important, though. Iām saying that itās just one thing that will get you to where you want to be. The rest is through the things you have learned from the people youāve met, from the drinks youāve had, and from the places youāve been at three oā clock in the morning.
Because not so long ago, I was fifteen.
