My pediatrician died. He died in October, but I found out on the Saturday before my birthday. I didn’t particularly like him, seeing as he was an old man whose hands were a little too cold for my taste. But he had been a part of my life since the day I was born. He’d signed the forms that got me my first job. He was a part of my childhood, and I didn’t like the timing of his passing. It all felt too symbolic.

Why did it feel symbolic, you may ask? Well, this past Monday was January 13.  That’s the day I was born, way back in 1996. In some ways, this January 13 seemed no different than every other. My teachers half-heartedly congratulated me, and my Facebook friends (who I never talk to) felt obligated to tell me how much they love me. But really, this birthday was so much more. On this particular January 13, I turned 18, meaning that I was now recognized as a legal adult.

If I seem bitter, it’s because I am.

Here’s the thing. I have absolutely no reason to be so annoyed. Everyone was very pleasant to me on my birthday. Everyone seemed very sincere in congratulating me. So why do I feel the need to insult them? I’m an adult, aren’t I? I should at least be able to accept the kindness of others, right?

The thing is, I don’t like being told that I’m an adult. I don’t like being told that just because I’ve made eighteen trips around the sun, suddenly I’m supposed to be ready for all the responsibilities of adult life. Eighteen years seems like such an arbitrary number. I’m an adult, but I don’t really feel like it yet.

Maybe I’m just afraid of growing up. And I know that everybody has those feelings at some point, but isn’t the fact that I still have them some sort of sign? Doesn’t that mean that I’m not ready?

Read that first paragraph again. A man died, and all I can think about is how his passing symbolizes my childhood ending as I turn eighteen. I’m a selfish, self-centered piece of trash. Why do I get to have the label of “adult?”

I still want to be treated like an adult, though. But everybody wants that, so it’s not like I’m something special. Being treated like an adult just means being treated with an ounce of respect, like I can make decisions for myself, like I’m an actual person. I just don’t want to be called an adult. It implies that something is over. That I’m not allowed to be a stupid kid who’s allowed to make mistakes any more. It implies that I should have everything figured out, that I should know what I’m doing and not be so filled to the brim with self-hatred. I don’t, and I am.

Maybe that’s what I’m really upset about: that I turned eighteen and I’m still not happy with myself. I try to improve myself, I really do, and I’m a better person than I was one year ago, but I’m still not happy. I’m not afraid of growing up. I’m just afraid I never will.