Hannah's Blog

Hi everyone, welcome to my brand new blog. My lovely boyfriend bought me a URL and designed this site for me, with the help of my pinterest board. I am so excited to start posting and writing on here. This is my first professional blog, and as a writer I am hoping this will be a good creative outlet for me (and might even look good on my resume). This blog will mostly be just me rambling but In the future maybe I will post more serious subjects, who knows! Anyways that’s all for now!

When I was a child I dreamed of the day I turned 16. To me, being a teenager meant freedom. My perfect age was 16, the age where everything is “sweet”, the age where you start driving, the age when my mom said I could have a phone and wear a crop top. I was always envisioning my life at 16…boys, a big red car with a bow on top, a shiny pink flip phone (I was a 2000’s baby duh)…it all seemed so perfect, so ideal. I was obsessed with growing up. As a kid who was always “mature for her age” I just wanted my body to catch up with my mind, I wanted to shed my baby fat and spread my perfect womanly wings! Looking back, I think I idolized being a teenager because everybody talked about it like it was magical, like it was the best time of your life: your prime. I turned 16 and had a totally awesome (and slightly awkward) sweet 16 at my house, I got my learners permit and felt like the world was my oyster. Of course by then I was totally idolizing being in my 20’s…being free, being independent, but I was happy at 16.

When I turned 17 I realized that that was my perfect age. I was 17 and sexy…at least I felt sexy. I also felt insecure, and sad. But I felt mature and excited for my future. I was graduating and moving out and partying. I loved being 17.

Then I turned 18…I was legal. I promptly lost my virginity and started hanging out with men way too old for me, but it was fun. I was “barely legal”…the girl all men fantasize about…18 and an innocent little thing, at least that’s what I told them. Being 18 was when I truly felt like a woman. I felt like all the years I waited to be who I really was were worth it. I felt perfect.

Now I’m 19 and I’ve learned a lot since then. I often look back on my younger self and think: “Am I out of my prime?”.

As a woman your value is predetermined by the patriarchy. If you’re too old or too sexual you’re useless and worthless. That is why being young felt so perfect, so right. I had 2 benefits back then, 2 things that men LOVED: 1. I was a virgin, and 2. I was jailbait. I remember telling men about my innocence, I remember them being so worked up at the thought of me being inexperienced. I remember feeling like I had power over them…because I did. The one power you will always have as a woman is being a tease. Now don’t get me wrong, I believe in a woman’s right to her own sexuality no matter what a man thinks of it, and I don’t think women are teasing men on purpose 100% of the time, just some of the time. I know I did. I never felt more powerful than when I brought a man to his knees just by telling them my age. Now obviously this is wrong, men should not sexualize underage girls. The whole barely legal trope is disgusting. But I would be lying if I said I don’t feel like I’ve passed my prime sexiness. It’s drilled into girls from a young age: be delicate, be sweet, be *young. *It’s hard not to feel sexy at 18 when men are practically drooling at the thought of deflowering you, it’s fucked up but it’s the truth.

Anyways, now at 19 I find myself again romanticizing my teenage self, thinking about the fun I had when I was baby-faced and immature. I think the price we pay for being so beautiful in our youth is growing out of it. Now I wonder if I did pass my prime. I wonder if I’ll ever feel as ready as I did at 17 and 18, I wonder if maybe it’s okay if I never do. I’m glad I experienced it anyways, in all it patriarchal glory, and I’m glad I made it out on top.

For the last two years a few people in my life have been saying the same things in regards to my mental health: “You should get tested for BPD” or “You’re probably bipolar”. It always seemingly occurs around the same time, right after a mental breakdown where I swear I hate my life and would rather be dead. Now yes, these fits of throwing my belongings around the room, kickboxing my mattress, and scream-crying to sad indie girl pop have been a bothersome monthly event for the past 3 years of my life, but sometimes I’m not fully convinced I actually have a personality disorder.

Let me get this straight, I am mentally ill. I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder at 14 and clinical depression (or major depressive disorder) at 17. I was an anxious and sad kid, I was an only child growing up living pay-check to pay-check, but I had a moderately normal childhood and a happy one at that. I was still mentally ill…also a difficult teenager (viva la revolution!!!!). I was fighting with my friends at school and my mom at home, my life was all play and no work, I had so much time to fester in my teenage angst. I was also unlocking my childhood trauma and incessantly thinking about how unfair my life was. This pressure on a kid who’s hormones are doing the samba was literally fuel for me to unleash a rampage of relentless rage and resentment on anyone who dared stray from my holier-than-though omniscient bible of righteous behaviour.

I wont lie, I do still think that I was right in almost all of the arguments I started at 17. I never need anyone to validate my feelings, I genuinely believe that I am so emotionally intelligent that I know when a feeling is justified. This is exactly where my problem with being told I have a personality disorder lies: I think my emotions are a valid reaction to an upsetting situation at least 93% of the time.

I do however meet the criteria for 5 or 6 of the DSM5’s diagnostic checklist. I have a fear of abandonment, unstable relationships (I dont like people), unstable sense of identity, chronic emptiness, and extreme anger. I’m an angry person!!! I’m 19 and the world is on fire! Maybe my validation issue is kicking in again, but I feel like this is normal for a depressed teenage girl.

I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just genetically doomed, maybe I’m just learning how to be normal, maybe I’m fine.