I’m so sick of feeling these pathetic but inavoidable teenage feelings. I want to skip 10 years and be with him. 30 years old. 30 years old and with someone else. What am I even thinking?
There are just these times, in between the amazingness of having no responsibilities, but youthful skin and ambition, amongst other perks to being a teenager, when one just depises all around and within theirselves.
Those boys. First year. Secondary school. 13 years old. “You’re fat!”
“Move on”, I hear all, and even myself, say to me, “it was 6 years ago, and being as un-self aware as you were, you definitely blew it out of proportion.”
But those boys. Those boys. I switched schools for them. Cried for them. Hated myself, for them.
And where do we live now? Why, we’re neighbours. What a glorious escape university has shown itself to be, thus far.
Am I really weird? Are they normal? Is the way they treat people acceptable? Am I wrong?
I hate them. Each and every one of them.
Teasing and taunting, even now. And I feel my chest tighten. Throat thickens. Eyes sting. And I cry discreetly and quietly, embarrassed by my tears, caused by what is at this stage, nothing at all.
They don’t even know why I hate them. How can people not remember?
I feel like I’m 13 again. Weird. Fat. Ugly. Insecure. Quiet.
It’s funny, because I was never a quiet child. I was never shy. I was a diligent student; ambitious, hardworking, friendly, sensible, fair, fun. I had a wide circle of friends until them.
I sit here, feeling those 1st year feelings again, which no one here who does not know me, can comfort me about. I’m ashamed of it. I’m ashamed of me. I really did think I’d moved on. My weight will always be an issue. They didn’t even mention it tonight. They only have to jeer. They only have to laugh. They only have to say my name. And I’m back there again.
And it makes me think of him. He saw past that. He never even saw that. He loves me. But he, is 30.
I thought uni was going to be different. An escape. But Ireland never allows escapes. Only the mindless can live and be happy here. The mindless or the pretty. They’d dare not jeer at someone pretty. But hey, it’s only me. Who cares?
**** this, I say.
**** feeling like this. ****ing 18. ****ing teenager. ****ing tears. ****ing pathetic.
Skip 10 years and skip this ****ing country.
skip my teenage angsty drivel.
When does it get better?
When will I be good enough?