You All Die at 15
Sun Apr 13, 2008 at 12:09:53 AM PDT
Now a famous remark that French philosopher Denis Diderot included in a letter to a young female friend presumably on the verge of womanhood. These words haunt me, perhaps because in my experience they ring so horribly true. I am currently living somewhere in the middle of my own adolescence and that of my children's. By the time my kids are teenagers, I would like to have made peace with the fact that I used to be one. Right now? I can't.
Without going into to much personal detail, I will say that my teenage years were normal. I am not thinking about major trauma or violence. Nor have I blocked any incidents out--journals from the time reveal that I remember everything in vivid detail, exactly as it happened. I've only glanced over them once, though, and once was enough. I remember too well. I would "eternal sunshine" the whole period in a heartbeat if I could.
Like anyone, I have faced a certain amount of adversity as any adult. Less than most, but still, miscarriage, the surprising demolition of my house, employment troubles, financial troubles, bla, bla, bla...and I have successfully integrated all of these things into the person I am. I rarely think about them, and neither do I live in denial about them. It is what it is, and I'm at peace with that. In the grand scheme of things, I know that these minor traumas don't rate high on the human misery scale at all.
I cannot do this with my adolescence. I remember my first year of college, when my roommates would discuss their high school years--frequently. I felt so mature and evolved. "High school is over, losers!" I would unkindly think. "Move on!" I never, ever spoke of or thought about high school.
Not until my late 20's or early 30's did these years come back to the front of my mind. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a memory would hit me like a ton of bricks. It was a new experience and I can't say that I cared for it. Which brings me here today, triggered by Erika's recent story on the subject of teens involved in an incident that bears no resemblance to my own teenage years. WTF?
I am very worried about being the parent of a teenager, especially a teenage girl. I wonder if the extent of my own scars may result from just how far out of their league my parents were when it came time to parent a teenager. Simone is only four now, but I feel like I may need at least nine years to sift through my neuroses.
Any teenager will tell you that parents should draw upon their own experiences as teens. Remember what it was like. They will say this with as much conviction as they will tell you that you couldn't possibly understand what it's like now.
However, a more interesting idea comes from Ariel Gore's Whatever Mom. Forget. At least put it on the back burner until your kids are done. They are not you. Stop projecting. One brilliant mother says,
I've had to distance myself from those memories. When I was full of my own teenage memories, I was a worse parent. I projected on to my daughter. I wanted to help her. But she is not me. I thought I knew that already, but I learned it once more. She was very opposed and shitty to me until I learned how to detatch
This is not easy for me to write. It is not easy to think about, either. Yet I feel such a need to prepare. And no, it does not feel too early. Not by a long shot.
A friend and I discussed this recently, and I was surprised to find that her feelings weren't so different from mine. "I used to feel sorry for my infant self," she told me. "But now I just have so much sorrow for my inner teenager."
What about you? How do you feel about your adolescence in retrospect? For those of you who have been there or are there now, how can your inner teenager and your teenage offspring live in the same house?
Permalink | 35 comments