I’m woefully enlightened. Cursed by premature maturity. Denied the bliss that accompanies ignorance.
This is why therapists shouldn’t raise kids.
No, I don’t lie down on a couch every time I talk to my parents. My parents don’t always try to examine the deepest levels of my psyche. I’m not constantly asked, “How does that make you feel?”
However, I’m still the son of two therapists. I still talk to my parents way more than almost everyone I know. I’m still annoyingly self-aware. And how could I not be that way, with two parents who treat me like their greatest patient? I couldn’t be ignorant even if I tried. And believe me, I have.
From the moment I was born, my life has been a crash course in empathy and consciousness. My mom and dad raised me too well. I was always the kid who knew better.
In Kindergarten, I knew better than to say bad words behind the teacher’s back. I knew that the uttering of such bad words was both a childish act of rebellion against adults and a misguided attempt to be more like them.
I was an annoying little turd, wasn’t I?
In 5th grade, I knew better than to make fun of a kid that everyone else made fun of. I knew that his mom had abandoned him and he acted out as a result. I tried to join in, to dislike him, but I knew better. I knew better.
(Here’s where I skip middle school because let’s face it, no one was very mature during those years.)
Today, I suffer as much as ever from these afflictions of wisdom and empathy. Teenagers are quick to judge and slow to forgive. We’re fickle in our opinions, and we have no time to stop and consider empathy. High school is a tough environment for a kid like me. It’s difficult to know better when no one else does.
That being said, I mean no offense to any of my peers and friends. I love the kids around me; I just feel as though I have been raised to be more enlightened than others around me are at this point in their lives. I struggle with this premature maturity. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t have my parents. I wish that I could participate in group-think so that I could fit in better. I wish I never knew any better.
But then again, I wouldn’t be writing this, would I?