On Acting Childish and Immature

Ah, the quintessential statement of “I’m such-and-such years younger than you, and you’re acting more immature.”

That would be an accurate statement on the surface if I’d really been mad about “not getting a present or being invited to a party,” which, as I’ve stated endlessly, isn’t so. In fact, to say I’m mad about not getting a present or being invited to a party is missing the point–in fact, multiple points–entirely. The true display of immaturity is being unable to see past the surface issues.

I was always aware that my frustration could be misinterpreted. The material level is unimportant–what is important is the fact that I have been disregarded. My accomplishments have been ignored and in fact, my whole career choice and some of those accomplishments have been made into just jokes. When everyone around you is praised–even when it’s deserved–and you’re an overlooked punchline, it hurts. When your own cousin decides to deal with a problem with you by not dealing with it and instead being passive-aggressive, dishonest, and inconsiderate, that hurts, too–and it’s immature.

Most importantly, though, throughout all of this, I’ve learned some important lessons–some about myself and the extent to which I am responsible, but many about the people I had, until now, chosen to spend my time with. Mainly, I deserve better and good, caring people wouldn’t do that to anyone, even if they did deserve it. I deserve to matter and I deserve people that agree.

A few days after all of this, I watched an episode of Oprah at work that dealt with toxic relationships–people that exhaust you, make you feel bad, bring you down, and generally are bad for you. Sometimes, I think that’s God’s way of giving me what I need when I need it. For me, that show was a confirmation that I made the right decision in removing myself from close friends, some of whom were long-term–a decision, I think, actually shows great maturity.

To me, immaturity would’ve been groveling and begging for forgiveness, ignoring my own hurt to hold on to friendships that weren’t worth holding on to.

From the start, I thought, “I’m 22 years old. I may be young, but I’m too old for this shit. This is how children address problems–by not addressing them at all.” I think I have a right to be angry, and I’d hardly call that anger immature.

Even if it was, it’s quite the case of the pot calling the kettle black–especially considering just a day or so ago he told one of the Real Housewives on Twitter he “proved the doctors wrong” by making it to 21 so she’d retweet him or wish him a happy birthday.


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