The old mattress was more like a hammock than a bed. The oxygen condenser gave its customary puff, almost mocking the irregularity of his breath. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure if he was breathing, this former man, now a thirty kilogram waif trying desperately to cling on to the last bare threads of his life.
I was sitting on the bed, holding his shriveled hand, trying desperately not to cry. Burning tears leaked out of my eyes and down my cheeks. I wasn’t upset. I was angry. Angry at my grandfather for smoking, for being sick all these years, for dying through my HSC, what an inconsiderate bastard. These thoughts ran through my head at a billion miles an hour. Eventually my brain went back to its old mantra. ‘Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die.’ It was a silly thought really, I knew it was coming, and sooner rather than later.
I didn’t hate him; I was just looking for something other that being so goddamn depressed all the time. I was looking for a reason to be so fucked up in the head. I hated myself for becoming that terrible angst teenage cliché. I was doing all those stupid things that teens do, cutting, taking pills and trying so hard to convince myself nothing was wrong. I spent nearly a year acting like an idiot, a year of wasted time and energy, chasing all the wrong goals and ambitions.

*          *          *

My Grandpa was 64, and had been a smoker for most of his life. He contracted tongue and throat cancer in 2002. From that date to the end of his life he struggled with many forms of cancer and various other complications that arose from it. It was a long and painful death from whichever way you look upon it. It affected the whole family, but my grandpa and I had a special bond, we were two peas in a pod right from day dot. I was his ‘best girl’ and he was my ‘Poppy’. When he became ill I always thought that things would get better, things never did, and he and I began the dreaded downward spiral in two very different ways.

*          *          *

Teenage grief and depression is a largely unacknowledged condition. A teen that expresses or demonstrates the symptoms of depression is often dismissed as going through a ‘stage’. It’s the angst ridden teen cliché checklist; black clothes, dark makeup, dark writing, ‘that horrible music’, and the customary scars on the arms and wrists. The commercialization of ‘Gothic’ and associated cultures have given many a way to express their frustration in the world and a wonderfully accurate mask to avoid their real problems from being noticed. This stereotype has provided a generation with a façade to which they can play along. Remember nothing is wrong unless you admit it.    
In the teen years we are defining our own values and beliefs. Coping with a death and experiencing grief during this stage of development causes further challenges in our struggle with these questions. We are torn between wanting to be independent and needing support from parents and family. Teens’ feelings about death and loss may be conflicting and very intense. We try to hide their grief because we don't want to be pitied or viewed as weak or (heaven forbid) as being different. The experience of grief increases our sense of isolation.

*          *          *

I let the warmth of mottled sunlight warm my back, the classroom was quiet only the scratching of the multiple pens and rustling of papers could be heard in the small classroom. This is the feared HSC, English paper one. The 16th of October 2005. Two years of English study, assignments and speeches boiled down to this point. I was ready, weeks of study and a calm breakfast (full of fibre for sustained energy). That little voice was a positive one. I can do this. Finally we could look at the paper. I slowly read over the paper, the related texts one by one, absorbing the words. I was relaxed, this was going well. Finally to the last related text. A large-ish piece. No. No way. I read the words again. Why? The article was about a piece of property near my grandparents farm, we often went there as children. All of a sudden the calm interior voice became anxious. My eyes were watering and my throat was choking up. I couldn’t breathe. Don’t cry, no crying in the exam. Why now? Why did there have to be a piece that reminded me so much of my grandfather? This was stupid, instead of writing an exceptional piece on journey, I was sitting in my seat not moving, not thinking and struggling to get the image of a cancer ridden body out of my head. It was the smallest of triggers, the stupidest of reactions yet I was doing it. And I couldn’t fix it because I couldn’t and wouldn’t ask for help.    

*          *          *

I used to dream about ripping my grandfather’s diseased body parts out and replacing them with machines. I was a little ball of anger. Whoops, there goes your tongue, your lung, your throat, your spine and your brain. That will fix things for sure.  
I never asked for help, never told anyone what I was feeling. I was hording all of this pent up anger, frustration and sadness because I didn’t think it was right for me to burden other people with my problems. Friends dealing with their HSC, parents with the sickness of their fathers and I never felt comfortable talking to a professional.

*          *          *

The world seems not the same, but I know nothing has changed.
It's all my state of mind, I can't say goodbye.
The pain that I feel slowly fades away.
I remember you're the reason I have to stay.

*          *          *

See that girl over there? The one all in black. Yeah the one reading a book during her lunch break. What a freak. She mustn’t have any friends. I heard she tried to kill herself the other week; she took a bunch of pills and vodka. I think someone in her family is really sick or something. She’s been like this for ages now. She should get over it. No use getting upset over something that’s taking this long. Whoever it is should hurry up and die already, it would do us all a favor. Maybe it would put her out of her misery too.

*          *          *

‘I feel as though a train has roared through my heart, splitting it into a million pieces. I feel as though happiness is a complete luxury that I will never be able to afford again, everything that I breathe, feel, sleep, dream and think is pain. It covers me like a shroud …it invades my lungs and my brain and my bones and my joints. I feel completely alone.’

*          *          *

It wasn’t till I split a muscle over my skull that my mum really noticed something was wrong. I was so tense the muscles on my head split, now that’s not what I’d call normal. When someone dies your given a list, things you should feel and things your should do. They all talk about ‘letting your feelings’ out and ‘talking it over’, but they don’t really want to listen. You’re not expected to feel deep sentiments of isolation and guilt.  Society expects you to move on, you’re a fickle teen, and what do you know about life and death? Run along and strive for the latest fashion trends. Friends are distracted and you don’t want to drag them down with you. You’re a sinking ship; anything that comes near you goes down too. You try and hide it all away. Try not to inconvenience people, try not to be noticed, try not to fall apart. Move on and up. Move over and out. Drift aimlessly from one assignment to the next.

*          *          *

Teens are complex; we are fully functioning humans (although sometimes it may seem contrary). We feel sadness, pressure, stress, confusion and joy. We are stuck in a social paradigm. Not adults but not children. Grief and depression are complex feelings for us, we don’t understand why this is happening, and often during our teens is the first time we experience proper loss. We try to hide, we try to fit in, we try to stand out, and we try to push others away.
Our expression of these feelings, whether it is through our clothing, music or attitudes helps us through. It is a ‘stage’ we go through. But not because we are idle and feel the need for a change. We do these things because often we don’t have the words or the confidence to express these thoughts out loud, so we do it subliminally. Don’t dismiss us as overdramatic teens, often this mask is covering something important. Talk to teens (we don’t bite). Trust us; it will help us trust you. Perhaps maybe one day we can even talk to you about it.