I was 13 when I first thought about killing myself.
I know it was that age only because I remember a specific detail that couldn’t have occurred when I got any older. After my sister, Lisa, moved to college when I was 14, I left the bedroom at the back of our third-floor 3-bedroom apartment, overlooking the fence, and into the larger bedroom that used to be hers.
“I don’t feel like anyone could understand me without knowing more about me than most people do,” I texted. “I usually do not have the time to explain the about-150 years of geopolitical and sociocultural history of the U.S., Europe and Asia and how that impacts me.”
I've never really understood the concept of an age of majority. The basic premise, as it was explained to me by "grown-ups," is that young people are not psychologically developed enough to make lasting decisions about their futures, so we -- as a society -- have stepped in to protect our kids from their own naivety and stupidity.
On this day that’s meant to recognise the hard work of interns (and bring attention to the many interns working unpaid jobs for “experience”), I want to briefly touch upon my gratefulness to The Chicago Sun-Times for hiring me as an intern this summer — and paying me for it.