Teen in Panic Mode: Unlocking the Perils of Adolescence

Depending on whom I'm addressing this article towards, I sometimes wonder if anyone - either a been-there, let's-party-like-it's-1999 adults or a teenager who really is going through the easiness stage of puberty which everybody with a zillion spots envy - understands what it's like to wave farewell to childhood and its expensive toys at the nearest Olympic Stadium-sized Toys R' Us and take your first steps towards regaining part of your sanity as an adult. Really, does a single person even care about whether I'm keeping everything under control as I undergo the most traumatic (if you've ever felt a lumpier-than-a-50ft-deep-pothole spot swell overnight, you will definitely have the word 'traumatized' scrawled over your forehead) stage of my life, or am I more alone than I ever believed would be possible?

Whilst listening to Lorde's eerily cool track, Ribs, on Spotify a couple of nights ago, one lyric stood out to me more heavily than her smartless, jealousy-inducing brag about staying at home alone (try uttering the same thing to the girl who has to travel nearly two hundred miles to view some properties tomorrow afternoon). Hearing 'feels so scary getting old' over and over again throughout the track truly struck a chord with me, unlocking thousands of bottled-up emotions of whose existence I'd never known, and it brought home how, beyond the milk chocolate fingers I'd unlawfully smuggled into my system last night (without even receiving a telling-off from my parents, I broken part of my wishes to abstain from milk chocolate for Lent), I am afraid of becoming an adult because there are so many problems and issues which not even the bravest and richest people can avoid.

From dealing with finances to living independently and finally realizing that your beloved Cheer Bear can longer be snuggled against in bed (as I've imagined so far), stepping into the shoes of an adult overnight freaks me out to a certain extent, particularly as my years of a Freddo-consuming minor will be coming to an end before I even know it. As revising for my GCSEs are placing more pressure than an aged boiler on me with each passing day and the prospect of furthering my education beyond the realms of schoolbooks stands out as an increasing possibility, there are no means in the slightest of my plotting a potential escape from the participating in the most life-changing events which I'll ever experience; unless I ever find a way of hiding in the dust-covered realms of my wardrobe, my chances of remaining stress- and maths-free are all but very slim.

As I lie on a wrinkly leather sofa in a Cleopatra-inspired pose and nearly doze off to the neutral buzzing of cheers on Sky Sports News, all of my problems - such as learning how to master a neat, ballerina-style bun (minus the sprinkling of aromatic spices and mixed peel as found with the hot cross variety) and banishing my writer's block woes for good - seem to overwhelm me at once, bringing on a panic from which I can't switch off like a TV remote. Sometimes, everything gives the wrongful impression of appearing far worse than it truly is, which is only accelerated by my up-in-the-air hormones and frightful temper getting the better of my once docile nature, but as soon as I return to Earth (which, by the way, would never happen as I've never left England) all of my short-lived panic diminishes into a sigh of purely felt relief. Being a hot-headed teenager never guarantees anything but a can of wiggly worms being opened, creating plenty of misfortune which I never look for, right?

Without resorting to the irritating usage of the over-used adverb 'basically' - come on, has half of the population never heard of such a thing as a thesaurus? - my mood, in a sense, is partly defined by my age, securing a few hours of hectic behaviour and easy-to-prick irritation upon those who stand in my path. And today, as I typically set out to do, I'm going to be exploring my views upon the woes which are commonly found (and loathed with a passionate hatred!) during the teenage years. Although I have never been unfortunate in the sense that a sign of good luck or positivity has not landed upon my doorstep (receiving a bottle of my grandmother's signature perfume suggests otherwise), can it truly be denied that teenagers have a natural tendency to lean towards whatever ignites a ferocious fire within them?

Usually, the obvious culprits are those to blame for our mood swings and lifeless, dull-as-a-repeat-of-The-Waltons stare, but some things go beyond what we typically associate with the teenage blues. As the title of Beyoncé's self-directed documentary, Life is But a Dream, suggests, life should be appreciated because it is a gift which all of us are lucky to have. But, if you share any quirks with me, life is all but one massive headache at times - and wouldn't you just love to understand why?

Spots: Yeah, I had to state the obvious as you expected, didn't I? Despite my dreams of becoming an inspirational writer, I question whether I'm using my imagination to its greatest extent by returning to a topic which I've discussed at least three times. Just when will the spot-related dream ever stop? If my current collection of the yellow-headed beauties disappear, I will finally reach the end of my disastrous chapter with everything spotty.
Siblings may smirk, adults shake their heads in frustration at the ghastly, make-up-free sight of your face and your confidence takes an all-mighty toll; need I offer another reason for which spots threaten to ruin our lives? Along with adjusting to the countless changes taking place in your body and juggling a million and one responsibilities as a young adult, spots take way too much space on your already full plate - and often leave you with no other choice than to burst like a needle pricking a balloon!
The reason for which an estimated 85% of teenagers fall prey of acne still doesn't make any sense to me, but it has become an unfortunate problem which is associated with growing up, the words of which no teenager ever wants to hear. Contrary to what many believe, spots don't automatically appear once you turn thirteen nor do they become extinct at the end of your teenage years (perhaps enduring the first spot-free year is a celebratory cause for one's 21st birthday?), and I only know this fact all too well because my first spot appeared when I was eight - seven years on, the problem hasn't shown any signs of slowing down or disappearing!
I often revisit a fantasy where I lead a life without spots being part of it, imagining myself bursting with happiness and displaying a stunning set of Hollywood-style white teeth all the time. As long as a pot of mineral foundation is at hand, I manage to get through the day without transforming into a British accented She Hulk - just don't ever make any comments about my complexion after having washed it!

Hair (both my medium-length mane and the unwanted ones): Please, whatever you do, never make a negative comment regarding my grease-prone hair (a.k.a the mane of which I dedicate nearly an hour to washing, brushing and developing a near-blinding shine on a daily basis) unless you have a desire to become the unfortunate recipient of my ultra-sharp tongue.
Not only do I obsess about the appearance of my hair almost all the time, but it is my pride and joy - nothing reignites my faltering confidence like a mane of freshly washed, apple-scented hair! Therefore, hitting puberty early opened a horrid can of worms by overstimulating my scalp, leading to my once-clean mane transforming into stringy, oil-covered locks overnight. At one stage, one might have questioned whether I'd doused my hair in the deep fat fryer at McDonald's - not only had my appearance taken a turn for the worse, but I had almost lost all of my confidence which was struggling to cope with this spiralling-out-of-control matter.
Thankfully, I have since swapped to a better shampoo (an article regarding my love for Alberto Balsam was published several weeks ago) and regularly wash my hair, so that mane-related problem has almost been swept underneath the carpet.
But, to my annoyment, a new dilemma has claimed the throne which my oily hair used to rule: dealing with hairy legs. Ugh, no words can precisely describe my horror at whipping out my epilator and being greeted with thousands of hairs, many of which keep growing underneath my raw-red skin. And my eyebrows? So much for being blessed with the bushier style which is currently all the rage - eyebrow queen Cara Delevingne would definitely never be caught with mine!
So, plucking my eyebrows and shivering uncontrollably whilst waiting for my epilator to charge have somewhat become unofficial hobbies, both of which I undoubtedly loathe with a capital L. For what I may have gained in oil-free hair, another problem has arisen relating to my continuous hair growth on the legs which I always hide from the glare of the public. Is there any chance of waving farewell to my hair woes for once and for all? The outcome has yet to become clear.

Giving up laziness: Despite the title, I can definitely assure you that I am not lazy. Honest. Yet doesn't every teenager face up to the possibility of having to perform something single handedly without any help from your parents at one point?
Although I was thrilled at the prospect of cooking a meal by myself a few months ago - is there anything more exciting than taking a step further towards independence? - a family of butterflies settled into my stomach and maximized my nerves to a level which was impossible to handle. Instead of giving my mum the task of cooking the dinner, I decided to give her a night off the duty and do it myself but, as I quickly realized, almost all things are easier said than done.
In the end, my family (except my younger brother, who appears to have a dislike for my cookery skills) tucked into a delicious oriental stir-fry, but I couldn't cope with having to cook the whole meal by myself; sensing my nerves, my mum helped me out which gave me a few moments of breathing space, a token of which I greatly appreciated.
Whatever it is, taking on a role which was once reserved to one older than yourself can cause a breakout of angry spots to terrorize you (only joking!), and it is normal to feel afraid of trying something completely unfamiliar. After all, don't all of us have to start somewhere?
Hmm, as for writing this soon-to-be-a-bestseller story of mine; chapter one has yet to be put into motion...

Hopefully, one perfect day when I'm older and have firmly put my teenage years behind me, I'll be able to laugh about my currently not-so-amusing troubles and feel rather nostalgic about the spot which used to appear between my eyebrows.

For now, though, I'm stuck in the unlucky perils of adolescence until I hit 20 - when will the panic stop?