Status: Discontinued
Have Kids, Then We'll Talk
Aiden Way: Under the Influence
When I was twelve, a teacher asked me to answer a question: “Who are you?” I told her I was a Way- she asked what that meant to me. I couldn’t answer- to this day I can’t answer that simple question. I could look at myself for hours trying to find that answer- analyzing every single detail of my physical, emotional, and mental appearances- and each time I will come up with the same haunting answer “I don’t know.” What I do know: my eyes mimic my fathers, but I'm not like him. My hair is lighter than my family- I don’t think I belong. My teeth are straight like my mother's, but I would crack every tooth to not look like her. I white out emotions. Numb out my mind. I am lazy, I am fucked, fucked up, masochist. I am a walking cliché in some books- and I laugh at that fact. In other books I’m a clinically depressed alcoholic with borderline personality disorder- untreated, unnoticed. I laugh at that too as I drown myself in vodka. I keep myself a fake so no one notices this. I admit it. I'm a fake. But I don’t know who I am?
I understand all teenagers go through the feeling of confusion. It seems like suddenly we wake up, and someone has robbed us of our soul. Someone turned off the lights on our fragile innocence, and we live in the darkness of our hormonal teenage mind. Everything we were yesterday, gone, replaced with something not human. We aren’t adults, but we aren’t children. We are teenagers. We are dangerous, confused, materialistic, murderous. Suddenly, the fun games we played with our friends are stupid. Now all that matters is status, money, looks. Teenage life is like watching someone strangle a child for six years- our child, our childhood. But until then, we live in a dream- a beautiful dream.
I think I woke up earlier than most people I know. My twelfth birthday to be exact, where I was informed I was the spawn of a loveless marriage, thanks only to a broken condom one Valentine's day. I was the bane on my mother’s existence. I was the reason why she stopped spreading her whore legs for that crappy tech rock band. I destroyed her perfect figure. I robbed her of her beauty so not even my father, who had low standards anyway, wanted to touch her. Because of that, she tried to kill me the old fashion way. I was born with a fear of metal hangers.
My father was a different story. My father was a Way…Gerard Fucking Way; the fucking god amongst depressive teenagers. He was the envy of people everywhere- the object of every woman’s affection. He was a “hero” to millions of forlorn kids who desperately needed his voice. You would think I would be honored to carry his name, but you will come to realize I am nothing like my father. I am everything he couldn’t admit about himself, I am everything he hated, everything he wanted to be.
And I wear the scars everyday of admitting what I am. But I still don’t know…who I am.
I understand all teenagers go through the feeling of confusion. It seems like suddenly we wake up, and someone has robbed us of our soul. Someone turned off the lights on our fragile innocence, and we live in the darkness of our hormonal teenage mind. Everything we were yesterday, gone, replaced with something not human. We aren’t adults, but we aren’t children. We are teenagers. We are dangerous, confused, materialistic, murderous. Suddenly, the fun games we played with our friends are stupid. Now all that matters is status, money, looks. Teenage life is like watching someone strangle a child for six years- our child, our childhood. But until then, we live in a dream- a beautiful dream.
I think I woke up earlier than most people I know. My twelfth birthday to be exact, where I was informed I was the spawn of a loveless marriage, thanks only to a broken condom one Valentine's day. I was the bane on my mother’s existence. I was the reason why she stopped spreading her whore legs for that crappy tech rock band. I destroyed her perfect figure. I robbed her of her beauty so not even my father, who had low standards anyway, wanted to touch her. Because of that, she tried to kill me the old fashion way. I was born with a fear of metal hangers.
My father was a different story. My father was a Way…Gerard Fucking Way; the fucking god amongst depressive teenagers. He was the envy of people everywhere- the object of every woman’s affection. He was a “hero” to millions of forlorn kids who desperately needed his voice. You would think I would be honored to carry his name, but you will come to realize I am nothing like my father. I am everything he couldn’t admit about himself, I am everything he hated, everything he wanted to be.
And I wear the scars everyday of admitting what I am. But I still don’t know…who I am.