a little bit longer and i'll be fine

I want to be taken seriously. I want people to listen to me. I also have a crush on Joe Jonas.

I was so fucking excited to go and see the Jonas Brothers play their first ever show in New Zealand. I promise. It’s just that every time I talked to someone about it I felt this deep shame, which meant I ended up saying things I didn’t even mean as if to say, “look at me clearly making fun of myself!!! What a silly little girl!!!” or “I know I know, how foolish and basic. But I was a big fan when I was younger!!”

I was a big fan when I was younger. I’m still a big fan now.

When I was 12 or 13, my younger sisters each got a CD for Christmas. One sister got Miley Cyrus’s Breakout and the other the Jonas Brothers’ A Little Bit Longer. It was a formative combination. In the days of buying individual songs on iTunes, saving up a staggering $20 for a CD from the warehouse or giving your family computer a virus in the search for free music, a whole album held in our hands was a type of currency and we felt rich.

At a time where every music purchase was deliberated and considered, the songs on my iPod shuffle worked hard to earn their place. I milked them for all they were worth. I knew every word, every note, every drum beat or shrill screech of the guitar. Every nasal twang. 

As I got older and grew into my sadness, the JoBros teenage angst and heartbreak echoed my own. And in my late teens, when my anorexia overtook me like a weed and I bounced in and out of treatments and hospitals, Nick Jonas’s lament for understanding and his resigned acceptance of his chronic illness in A Little Bit Longer did something no other song I found at the time did. It gave me permission to feel the same: desperate, helpless, broken, angry and quietly hopeful. Just a little bit longer, and I’ll be fine. 

Even as a child, even when I loved something fully, I was embarrassed by it. My urgent and pervasive social anxiety kept my opinions, feelings, likes and dislikes quiet until I was sure that someone near me felt the same. Until I was sure I could be validated by someone else. 

I was so hyper aware of how I was perceived, of how every interaction felt like a risk – my whole life in the hands of someone else – I found myself lying often about what movies I had seen, what artists I knew, what songs I had heard. It wasn’t even intentional; it was automatic. If I was asked if I had seen or heard something I said “yeah, I think so” before I even knew what was happening. Then I would feign forgetfulness if the conversation got too specific. I wanted so badly to feel secure. The truth was that I hadn’t seen a lot of movies. I didn’t watch a lot of TV. I never listened to the radio or knew what song was popular now. I was always late to the trend, listening to my parents rock music or last year’s pop hits. Of course, none of this really mattered, no one else cared at all and everyone had much bigger problems. I did too. But in the thick of adolescence, everything feels like it’s make or break. And break feels like the end of the world. I didn’t need hindsight to be embarrassed of who I was. I was embarrassed in the present moment. Over and over again. 

Undeniably, part of this resistance, hesitance and shame to claim what I liked came from the reaction young girls get when they share their love of a boy band or bubblegum pop artist. Adults of any gender and young boys in my life immediately dismissed any artist made popular by women. They wouldn’t even listen to their music and form their own opinion.

But women have made some of the world’s biggest stars: Elvis Presley, The Beatles, One Direction. And not just male artists. What about Beyoncé, Adele, Taylor Swift? 

I was so achingly aware of this shame waiting for me that it felt easier to hide whatever I liked and cling on to whatever the person I was with in that exact moment liked. Because if I did share what I like, I didn’t want to be dismissed. For anyone to think that I was only there for the cute boys. That I hadn’t listened to their music and felt something bigger than myself. That I didn’t love the riffs and the melodies. I wanted to feel heard and smart and capable of critical thinking and analysis. I didn’t want them to think I was just like every other girl. That’s where I went wrong. I love a lot of girls and I love being just like them: I want to be taken seriously. I want to dance to good music. I want people to listen to me. I had a crush on Joe Jonas. 

As I have gotten older and realised how little anything really matters, I’ve made a painfully conscious decision to find what I authentically like and don’t like. I’ve listened to the music I enjoy, even (especially?) if it was Camp Rock. I’ve read children’s books because I liked the stories. I’ve watched bad comedy movies because they are easy and funny and silly and I like it when my life feels easy and funny and silly. I have made laughter and joy a priority every day. Have chosen to talk to my friends about something other than how I feel and how full of despair I am – and it made me feel better. I have made a fool of myself in public because I was laughing so hard and loud. I have chiselled humour from everything I could. 

I have embraced loud, bright outfits and eccentric accessories and finally found the clothing styles that feel right for me (1. a five year old girl’s imaginary best friend; 2. a spiritual, whimsical art teacher from the 90s; and 3. Adam Sandler). Part of this work is writing this piece right now. Which is to say I went to the Jonas Brothers at age 28 and I loved it.

I loved it when these men in their 30s sang songs they wrote as teenagers. I loved it when they sang songs from Camp Rock and their Disney Channel days. I love that they knew we wanted to hear them. I loved seeing a girl wearing the same dress as me. I loved seeing other women wearing merch at the airport the next day. I loved singing loudly and losing my voice. I loved screaming when they came close or when Nick yelled ‼️RED DRESS‼️. I loved being in the same space as girls and women and people who were exactly like me. I was not embarrassed at all. Finally, I was right where I needed to be. 

It is cliche to say (but it’s true!!!) that it does get better with time and age. As you get older, though it is still work, it gets easier to not care. Which is to say, if you are embarrassed and shameful and anxious, just wait. A little bit longer and you’ll be fine. 

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who wrote this?

Erin Donohue is a writer and editor from Aotearoa New Zealand. Her first novel was published in 2017 and was a finalist in the NZCYA Book Awards. She writes weekly on her Substack ‘oldest wisest self’ about her mental illnesses, her treatment and her craft:

She is currently working on a collection of personal essays. More of her work is available on her website and on her Instagram @erin__donohue 𓆩♡𓆪

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