Smells Like Teen Angst
A reflection on rebellion, adolescence, and the chaos that shapes us
My 10-year-old son requests Nirvana.
My daughter plays Mazzy Star on repeat.
Somehow, I’ve come full circle—and nothing could make me happier.
I’m back in 7th grade, deep in my own era of teenage angst—trying my first beer (then dumping it down the sink because, ew), dyeing my hair maroon, and attempting to smoke pot for the first time out of a pop can. I pushed against the invisible boundaries and bucked at reins that often felt too tight and restrictive.
At one point, I must’ve pushed too far. I can’t remember what I did to piss my parents off so bad, but I’ll never forget when my dad decided the rightful punishment was to burn my Nirvana poster in the fireplace. Lord have mercy that I don’t repeat the same misgivings of my parents. I just sat there on the couch, tears rolling down my cheeks, sobbing at the injustice of it all.
Middle School encapsulated that beautiful time in life where we rebelled for no reason and every reason—to test limits, to taste freedom, to see how far we could expand. We felt everything and saw everything all at once… depression, suicide attempts, grunge, french kissing, hands slipping beneath waistbands in the dark corners of a theater, a friend’s dad caught in an affair, hallway fights, and bus stop beat downs. And the ‘90s delivered the perfect soundtrack: Nirvana, Green Day, Pearl Jam, and Soundgarden amplified our collective budding rage.
Sometimes I still feel that youthful chaos running through my veins, a reminder of the girl I was, the girl who still stews inside me, sneering at authority figures, questioning the systems at play, rolling her eyes at the status quo, and screaming into the void.
Last week, a 6th grader at my daughter’s middle school tried to take her own life in a bathroom stall. I don’t know what else to say, except that it happened.
When I was in 7th grade, a friend swallowed a handful of ibuprofen at school in an attempt to kill herself. Nick had broken up with her, but there was probably more to the story, more to her reasons for no longer wanting to live that I didn’t know about at the time. Thankfully, she was fine. She was rushed to the hospital by ambulance and had her stomach pumped. I remember thinking how awful that would be, to have my stomach pumped…
Into the Void
It’s wild, standing here now as a mom, watching these kids walk through the very fire we once danced in.
They leave behind their brightly painted elementary schools and are thrust into halls thick with hormones, angst, and the ache of figuring out who they are—and how they fit into the world.
One part of me cringes at what they’ll be exposed to.
But the other part knows: this is their rite of passage. A necessary chaos.
It’s a part of growing up.
Adolescence was, is, and will always be a long, sustained scream into the void.
A cry of existence, declaring: I am here.
We are here.
We are alive.
And they’re just warming up their vocal cords.
Because it’s only when we go silent that we begin to disappear.
And it’s only in silence that we die.
To the young teenager:
I hope you scream.
I hope you scream into bathroom stalls, into hallways, and into the silence. Carve out your existence!
Be a siren and sound your warning when you see that
the systems we’ve built and permitted to continue, are making us sick.
You are the canaries in the coal mine.
Don’t stop singing.
To the forty-something year old parent:
I hope you scream, too.
I hope you scream into bathroom stalls, into pillowcases, into policies.
Be the siren, sound the warning:
the systems we’ve built, the systems we’ve allowed, are making us sick.
And now they’re making our children sick, too.
You are the canaries.
Find your voice and
Don’t stop singing.
Please, don’t stop singing.
