In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “When Childhood Ends.”
<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/when-childhood-ends/">When Childhood Ends</a>
I was 10 when I realized I was growing up. I could feel my imagination fading away as information from school filled my brain. I was beginning to understand that I needed to be treated better than my friends were treating me at the time. I even began to get depressed at the thought of any past memory. Again, I was only 10.
By the time I got to middle school, nothing was the same. My best friend was beginning to grow apart from me, I didn’t have the same joyous wonder about life that I used to, and instead evolved to more of a glum despise toward it, and I was beginning to gain sexuality. Even though my best friend treated me like shit, and began to grow apart, I couldn’t help but to feel attracted to him; I even wanted to see him naked. It was torture. I don’t know the exact moment I began growing up, but I knew my childhood was over by the age of 11. Hell, I even wanted to kill myself because not only was I confused about my feelings, but I knew none of them were good. No one at school seemed to like me, my family treated me like I didn’t matter- especially my only sibling, an older brother. But despite all the pain, all the confusion, I stuck through it because I knew it wouldn’t last. I knew people would change and that I would change. I knew that life was just testing me to see if I could survive adulthood.