Adolescence is madness. Nothing further asserts this claim than the thrum of the seemingly never-ending jail-time routine: shuffling from period to period with brief breaks to gasp for air before sucking in, holding your breath, and ever diligently diving back in. 

Adolescence is also rebellion. This definition varies from student to student, and acts range from small to extreme. I took to the more minute actions: lingering on my walk from the bathroom back to class, easily pardoned by my pass, to looping my headphones behind my ears and hair during class.

My blue iPod nano, whom I lovingly named Ernesto, was both my sword and shield; the enabler and perpetrator of my rebellion against madness. I lived in a strict household with even stricter curfews, so I entertained vividly illustrated scenarios of engaging in these supposed extreme acts of rebellion, imagining that I, too, were a teen, of Ferris Bueller caliber. Spending so much time indoors made the walls seem to cave in. Media constantly portrays adolescence as a time of freedom and exploration, and it tore at my core to not have the same opportunities. To quell the nagging insistence that I was missing out, or worse, wasting my youth, I imagined myself in my young adulthood. I was Jennifer Garner in 13 Going on 30. In this future, I was successful, thriving, but most importantly, I was free. The internet only recently birthed social media, and I was not allowed to have a Facebook account and definitely not a Myspace. To save my sanity, I found respite in music. It was with little things: listening to my iPod in bed when I was supposed to be sleeping or scrolling through Tumblr late into the night. Consequently, due to circumstance (and maybe even universal interference), I fell in love with the sugary, yet defiant tones of pop-punk. Bands like The Maine, Mayday Parade, and A Day to Remember all sang of love and adventure. I accompanied them on these nights of quiet rebellion, staring at my ceiling. Lyric after lyric sustained me, and I only craved more, which ultimately led me to All Time Low. 

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The album Put Up or Shut Up released when I was in sixth grade, so I was introduced to the band rather late (Nothing Personal released when I was a freshman.) Despite the discographic variation, I found myself drawn to Put Up or Shut Up, playing and replaying the EP whenever and wherever I could. 

When I first listened to the song Running from Lions, I felt like Anton Ego taking his first bite of ratatouille. How could something man-made encompass my feelings so perfectly? Was Alex Gaskarth stalking me? Alternatively, I was in awe. I was in love. How could I feel such thrill and infection without so moving a muscle? How could a song make me feel so intensely? 

I imagined myself as the speaker in this song. It married my daydreams and hopes. Driven mad by this forced, barbaric containment of thousands of hormonal teens, I obtained the impossible: freedom. That’s what Gaskarth gave me with the words of this song for three minutes and thirty-one seconds: blissful, ecstatic freedom. 

Gaskarth’s lyrics became my battle cry against madness. One of my best friends and I would sing this song during passing period (the time allotted to walk to your next class) pleading with the other to get me out of this place. Triumphs and defeats were made and felt with Gaskarth’s vocals ever-present in the background. Even a quiet kid such as myself was allowed a space in the pages where we made our history.

The truth amid the flamboyant, media-fuelled displays of camaraderie and friendship is that teenagers feel utterly, despairingly alone. Which is not to say that these facets of youth aren’t present in real life; but regardless of how many friends one may have, everyone has the fear of not knowing who they want to be and what they want in this life. So many big decisions are made during this time as well, from choosing a college to determining a (usually) permanent, unchangeable career path. These feelings of vulnerability are sometimes inexpressible; so, we turn to music. 

Now, I am the farthest I’ve ever been from my adolescence; simultaneously, this is the closest I’ll ever be to it. I still play this song in the shower or on my commute to work. The angst is gone, but the hope remains. On bad days, I feel I’ve never changed. On good days, I feel I’ve never changed. As my memories fade, as they often do, the feeling embeds itself, reignited upon every listen. And I continue to hear Gaskarth sing to me, encourage me, and it keeps me wanting more.

Keana Aguila Labra (she/her) is an INFJ, bisexual Virgo who resides in the San Francisco Bay Area. She examines literature & media through a cultural and feminist lens with poetry, prose, articles, and CNF essays. Knowing the importance of representation, her work is evidence that Filipinx Americans are present in the literary world. Her book reviews may be found on Medium: @keanalabra.

This article was edited by EIC Kailah Figueroa