You ask me what is it to be a teenager? Listen to me. Here I am, anguished and exhausted. I will tell you. Listen to me. Listen without pity. I cannot use your pity. Listen with understanding. Put yourself in my shoes, and hear me.
Being a teenager is waking up at five in the morning on weekdays, Monday through Friday. The sheets are warm and keep begging you to stay, but you have to go and carry out life’s duties. It is walking zombie-like to the bathroom with sleep-ridden eyes, and hoping you don’t fall on the short way there. It is feeling deprived of a necessity. The eight-hours the doctor always recommends become fantasies, jokes.
Being a teenager is looking in the mirror and instantly overwhelmed with dissatisfaction. Never have I been unhappy with myself until adolescence. It seems like there’s people that are ultimately superior to you no matter what the case. It seems like other girls scrutinize my appearance for flaws. It seems like in a world obsessed with perfection, I could never fit in. Minutes tick by, the clock’s hands move quickly. It’s seven o’clock, it’s twelve noon, and it’s eight in the evening: routinely, I am compelled to examine my face for breakouts. Large pores. The blemishes that were once deemed normal during adolescence suddenly are not anymore. Scars are gross. Acne is gross. By default, I’m gross.
Being a teenager is big decisions. Decisions that dictate where my life is going once I graduate. Why am I given so much responsibility but still treated like a child? I have to decide which college I want to attend. I have to decide what tests to take.
Being a teenager is being looked at like a piece of meat.  The boys in my school constantly look at girls and claim them as their own. It’s dehumanizing because my worth depends on how big my assets are, not on my personality or my achievements. But genetics instead. If I don’t allow a guy to touch me, I’m a prude and not open to experiences. If I were to, I would be considered promiscuous and disgusting. There is no in between. I am the prey of hundreds of ravenous individuals that don’t weigh in my opinions or values. If I’m not the best of the batch, I’m not blessed. I’m not important. I’m irrelevant. Do you know what it is like to have a person not listen to you when you are talking? To be knowledgeable that someone is repeatedly eyeing you and only interested in your body? Or how you can please them, without even consenting to it? Being a teenager means starting to think of yourself as a number, an object. Being a teenager means trying to change yourself for those around you.
Being a teenager means self-discovery. It is making mistakes and learning from them painfully, it is having others judge you for not being right every second of the day. It is being scared and monitoring what you say, what you’re supposed to say to a specific person. It is finding out your sexual orientation and people scurrying in the corners attempting to take advantage of you and your vulnerability. It means listening to new music, although it may not exactly be what everyone else’s preferences are. Hiding your unique tastes because it’s not what’s on the radio. It’s not what ladies should be hearing. It’ means determining who I’m going to be in life.  It means accepting paths I might take. It means discerning my morals and world views. It means being exposed to people who don’t desire to agree to disagree. It means conflict. Being a teenager means you’re expected to abide by standards and perspectives that you don’t believe in. 
Being a teenager is academic stress. It means standardized testing, passing examinations by memorizing the material, but not really grasping concepts or leaving class with a priceless experience. It means worksheets, more worksheets. Tests define me. Scores define me. My intelligence is defined by a piece of paper. It means studying so hard, my brain fries. It means having teachers bombard me with homework on the weekdays, weekends, and birthdays. I’m not permitted a single break, not during the summer. Not during Christmas. It means being so mentally exhausted, I can’t function. If four AP classes are not on my schedule, I’m not receiving an advanced education, I’m just regular. It’s coming home to stacks of paper and reviewing notes until three in the morning. It’s overloading on caffeine to stay awake and being sick to my stomach a couple of hours later. People’s expectations of me are ridiculous. It’s wishing the day had more than twenty-four hours. It’s wishing I was superhuman. It’s the harsh realization and the cold slap in the face… I’m not. It’s sacrificing relaxation time and adventures with friends because my responsibilities to school are crucial to me succeeding. It’s rigorous standardized testing. Being a teenager means having an excess of deadlines and limited amount of time. 
But you say to me, “Eventually, adolescence ceases and adulthood begins.” Yes, that happens as the years progress. The scars in a teenager’s mind are permanent: they stay for as long as they please, even if it means permeating into the maturity of adulthood. The insecurity, the detriment of self-esteem, the late, dark nights without sleep, it all catches up to you.
Even teenagers can dream. A dream of a time when there are not mounds of work to throw oneself into. A dream of time when you aren’t your worst enemy, your harshest critic… a time when you wake up happy and go to sleep satiated.
We are weary flowers uprooted from the brittle dirt. We are birds deliberately pushed out of the nest.  I have come out of my troubles to tell you this. Others like me are all around you, even if you don’t notice it immediately. Look at us with an angry heart, anger that will help you help me. Anger that will let you tell of me. Teenagers are always complaining. Can you complain for us too?