*Originally posted on Medium.
Middle Class. Well, upper middle class. You have to include that for all your “non-privileged” friends, the ones who did not always live comfortably and a little more. Upper middle class sounds too pretentious for my liking, but I think defining yourself in terms of social or economic standing is already pretentious.
I never fully understood why my friends would remind me of my blessed life. Was it out of jealously? — It couldn’t have been, they were all more genuine people than me: more kind, more beautiful, and more intelligent. I have dull, brown, and big eyes with pin straight, brown hair to match, but them? My friends have the perfect shade of hazel, blue, or green eyes that draw your attention and require no makeup to help them stand out. Their hair is lavishly soft with the perfect waves and curls, meanwhile their bodies are all ten’s without any gym action necessary. Yikes — I sound like the jealous one, but in reality I completely recognize that their beauty is natural and I have no reason to be envious of something that is organic.
So, we’re both not jealous of the other. Maybe they’re upset that I always got to live comfortably, while they were afraid some weeks and had to hear their parents argue about money more than the normal couple does. I’ve luckily always lived comfortably and I don’t think there is any other way to live. A life of excess becomes less of a blessing and more of a greedy filled desire, whereas living scarcely is frightening and tiring. Living comfortably has always seemed the best way to live or feel.
Although, being comfortably in love has never been desired. Why not be passionate in every relationship? Why not carry a heavy and full heart instead of having a heart half missing? When your significant other says, “I love you,” you should never be afraid to say, “I love you more” just because you know you’re absolutely right. I hope when I’m old enough to believe in settling down permanently, I marry a man who fills my soul with passion and the desire to always be alone with him. One day, I’ll be married to someone who is my teenage dream, who stirs emotion into my brain and reminds me why I always thought feeling everything ten times deeper than others was a blessing.
Passion in my life feels missing and my blessing feels like a curse. When hot tears that burn as strongly as my lost passion spill down my cheeks, I cannot interpret my sensitivity as anything other than a curse to unhappiness. I’m quick to wear my emotions on my sleeve, which almost never works out in my advantage because privacy does not exist when your emotions always seem strung out upon your face. People have learned that “you look tired” is the only polite way to say “you look like you’ve been run over by a truck” and asking how you are will only result in lies. Lying is the easy party, for words are meaningless and the only way to trust me is through what the body displays along with the words. So my body cannot lie, just like Shakira’s hips, but that’s another story more suitable for another time. People seem to trust words more than body language, which is more than likely a direct result of social media and the new generation never having to face genuine interaction.
This is my story; this is my teenage love affair with my first “love” and myself.
I wasn’t my first love, but I wish I had been, so that when he crumbled my heart with his meaningless words I could support and remind myself just how beautiful and incredible I am. In fact, there is no one in this world quite like me. This kickass mentality was not always prevalent; this security within myself, this self-love and self-appreciation did not always exist. When a heart breaks you can use someone else to piece up the remains, but I decided to use myself to feel whole again.