Birthday Wishes

Every year, around this time, I almost starve myself with the goal that the next year will be different. I look back on the times when I was mocked, ditched and alone, and I vow that I will change so that I won’t have to repeat this again next year. Because no one wants to eat lunch in the toilets. But sometimes I wonder whether I am the one that needs to change. 

I used to say that the best thing about me is that I am unique. 

Now I say that the thing about me is that I am a socially awkward incredibly sarcastic fat loser that studies too much, has acne, and has no friends. 

And who put those words in my mouth? Why are we so concerned with vanity? What does it matter if I’m slightly more shy than you, if I have spots and you don’t, if I’m slightly heavier than you – does it mean that I’m not an interesting girl, a good person, a great friend? Of course not – but it does mean that a lot of people don’t want to know me as much as say, Kourtney Kardashian. 

Perhaps the problem is that I am horrifically shy around people I don’t know. Or maybe it is because what I love about myself others don’t – I love my enthusiasm to learn everything I can about anything until the day I die, I love the odd way my mind works sometimes and I love that I am much more of a listener than a talker. That’s my nature; it cannot be changed like my appearance can to a degree. 

I would like to be skinny with clear skin – it has been the wish on my breath as I extinguished my birthday candles for years, the goal of my diets, the aim of my exercise. I am just as bad for conforming to this vanity – by asking others to give me a second chance based on a new look that hides the old me. But to experience a year at school where I don’t walk alone through crowded corridors, where I don’t sob over lunch in the toilets, where I’m not mocked with new words based on old ideas that I have heard a thousand times … that would be justify every birthday wish. 

To sink or burn?

No one believes it when they’re children; everyone says it when they’re older. I wished away my childhood and yearned to be older because why would I want to drink coke when my parents drank out of fancy wineglasses; why would I want to go to bed early while my older siblings stayed out late; why would I play with teddy bears when I could sleep alone like a big girl.

Exams are being marked; medical aptitude tests have been scheduled; universities are being chosen.

Now I miss it. I miss the feeling of running away screaming in the playground during a game of chasies, feeling like I was faster than the wind that beat against me, and returning to the classroom panting with bloody knees and a grin on my face matching that of a triumphant warrior returning from battle. I miss the innocence of perceiving God as an old man smiling down at me from the clouds and the comfort of my guardian angel at my side. I miss having decisions made for me; of who my friends were, of where I would go to school, of what extracurriculars I was involved in.

I am seventeen; I know I am still I child and I remain ignorant in so many ways that I am sure anyone forced to read my whingings will find them simultaneously hysterical and grammatically incorrect.

One of my teachers frequently described school as a train that got faster and faster as the years went on. I feel like the train is forcing me down a route that I haven’t fully chosen but it’s so fast now that I cannot safely jump out. I feel like I started off the year at a crossroad between medicine and writing, and everyday has had me hurtling further and further away from the latter to move towards the former. Money has been sent on medical aptitude tests, conversations at home are peppered with tips on applying to medical universities, and it is now expected that I will pursue medicine as a career. No one mentions an alternative anymore; as has been emphasised for the past several years an English degree in this economic climate is considered idiotic and a waste of money. I feel like a bride contemplating jilting her fiance at the alter because I keep wondering if it is too late to back out. I want to save lives, but – as pretentious and arrogant as it sounds given my limited grasp on the English language – I also want to provide people with reason to live.

In many ways I feel like I am standing alone on the shore as a tsunami wave rises. I have only a month to decide whether to remain standing and allow the water to sweep me up and carry me like driftwood along the existing current towards medicine. Or I could run fast far away from the flow of water and play with fire instead.

But tonight I do not chose to fight or flight; tonight I look back to the happier easier times of childhood when inconsequential decisions were made for me. Yet remembering that blissful feeling of freedom makes me wonder whether I should allow my parents to make one final life altering decision on my behalf by closing my eyes and welcoming the tsunami that is already hurtling towards me at a horrifying rate.

My Wonderwall.

Wonderwall: ‘someone you find yourself thinking about all the time, the person you are completely infatuated with.’

I wish you didn’t work right down the street from where I live. Then it would be easier to forget what we shared, alone in our haven of bliss, before the barriers of social popularity were renewed once more and became all the more constricting.

Autumn’s Ashes, Autumn’s Rebirth.

Summer is my autumn; simultaneously a time of death and of rebirth. It is when I am at my most melancholy, and it is when I allow myself to dream again. But I think that it is difficult, when looking back on a year, not to think of all the things I’ve lost instead of everything that I’ve gained.

Friends are a fickle people. I haven’t known the unconditional comfort of a best friend nor the safety of a group of friends since I was 15 when I lost them. It was then I learnt that friendship is indeed conditional. This year I lost some good friends; not through fights or mistakes like before, but through distance. I was sick of being the first one to contact, but in my insecurity I forgot even the ill-treatment I suffered was worth it to simply to have anyone there that cared a fraction. But things deteriorated one dark winter’s night when one of my ‘good friends’ ditched me in the middle of nowhere in the snow so that she could hang out with her more popular other friends. That was a long walk home. It’s not that I stopped talking to them – I just stopped initiating contact. But when they don’t keep in touch, when they don’t miss you – that’s when you get hurt and become alone.

Is it my fault? Probably. I don’t live the most interesting of lives, I don’t share that innocent radiance of first bloom of so many of my peers, and I admit that I am quite … different.

But even in the depths of my loneliness it is nice to think of what I do have and what I have accomplished. A nice home and a good family are things that should never be taken for granted. And this year … I have become someone with an identity that I embrace instead of disguise. There are still questions that rake my mind each night, familiar insecurities when I catch sight of my reflection in a mirror, and depths of myself that I simultaneously fear and hate. But there is also love and acceptance of who I am, regardless of what other’s believe. I may be typicalandstereotypical, but first and foremost I am unique.

Tick Tock.

It’s been a while since I last posted. It’s been a while since I last allowed myself a moment to think.

Exams are horrible thing; rows upon rows of students, most of them striving for a better future that resides on acing their exams. I think exam halls are graveyards of dreams; where some are fulfilled but most are lost forever. For me my dream is to become a doctor. I think. It’s hard to know at seventeen what to do, and I think its harder to be competing with thousands of students – all of them with exemplar academic and personal achievements – for a career that I maybe want to do.

At the start of this year, I thought I was at a crossroads – to pursue writing or medicine – and I made it my goal to chose a path. After work experience, the most wonderful and amazing work experience in the world, I knew I wanted to do medicine. But as time proceeded, my elation faded and that familiar doubt crept in. What do I want to do with my life? Personally I love medicine; I think it would be a very fulfilling profession. I’m not so naïve as to think all I will make miraculous medical discoveries, and I know that for every life saved there will be others lost. Practically a medical degree will most likely guarantee me a job, and everyone expects me to do it. But writing … well, I adore it. However others will not, and my passion for writing won’t put food on the table.

It was in the exam hall I wondered whether several of my tests would murder my ambitions for medicine. Universities expect an ideal candidate; an all-rounder in every respect that has aced every single test since they were in nursery. Am I that person? Others think so. But I remain torn.

And I am running out of time.

It’s Do or Dye.

I am writing this on – hopefully – the precipice of great change.

I know that they say appearances are not everything, nor would many argue anything if you have enough money.

However with teenagers I believe standards of beauty are measured solely on the basis of a person’s weight, bra size and overall external appearance. I will not be declared a hypocrite by pretending any exemption from this, particularly given this post is juxtaposed with another declaring my undying lust for Josh Hutcherson. Obviously I am not ashamed to admit that (online to strangers).

(Do not pretend you do not want a piece of Peeta-bread.)

…

Perhaps it is an oversight on my part not to include my severe social awkwardness as a contributing factor to my status as a social pariah, however I doubt it bears as large a reason as my overall appearance. Average looking – with more spots than a cheeta and a weight hovering between skinny and fat – I have never been popular.

In primary school I blamed in on my natural hair moreso than myself; an ugly colour hovering between blonde and brown, I felt confident it was the reason why so many overlooked the mousy girl at the front of the class. (… I was a really cool child by the way.)

With that reasoning in the summer before my transition into grammar school, I dyed my hair arguably the yellowest blonde you will ever lay eyes on (many have described it as the colour of the sun) . In the six years since my hair colour has fluctuated throughout the various shades of blonde.

At some point following this – as if to match the radiance of my hair – a smile became a permanent fixture on my face. Ironically amongst the peers that know of me I am known for my constant laughter and inability to be serious, when in fact beneath it all humour serves as an easy veneer for my true feelings. I am at a loss of how to remove it; as if it was cast onto my face with a permanent sticking charm by Walburga Black (though why she would attempt to cheer a Muggle is beyond me.)

However changing my external appearance seems like a good place to start.

Tomorrow – at the risk of bankruptcy – in addition to getting my roots done (getting my colour retouched, if any boys are reading this) – I will also get dark highlights. It may seem like an insignificant event, but for a person who fears change of any and all varieties, it is the first step towards fulfilling my (early) New Years Resolution; to embrace new things and stop being such a pushover. It is do or dye, so to speak.

Hopefully it will pay off.

If not, hats were invented for a reason.

Study Hell.

In my school there is a study hall for sixth years.

During their free periods and during break and lunch people congregate in it. They gossip and laugh in their separate cliques, they make plans for the weekend and for their future together. In their wake they leave half-eaten sandwiches and chocolate bars on floors and seats for unsuspecting students to sit on …

(It’s hilarious because it looks like a person pooed themselves. Not as funny though if it happens to you during first period.)

Sometimes I walk through the study hall under the pretense of using it as a shortcut to the canteen. Feeling about as conspicuous as a cat in a dog pound, with each step I feel like there are eyes scrutinising my every move and judging me for it. 

In reality I think most people are oblivious to my existence.

With each step through the study hall I say a silent prayer to God that someone will see me, call me over and gossip and laugh with me like they would with their friends.

That has yet to happen.

I have still to determine whether mockery would be preferable to the collective dismissal and disregard for my presence as a whole. Regardless I tell  myself …

I don’t need them, anyway. 

However it is stereotypical and false of me to pretend it is my own choice for my isolation. Unfortunately I’m more of a Rachel than a Phoebe.

 

 

I don’t know if I need it, but I desperately want someone who would be willing to hear about my day, who would genuinely care about my thoughts and worry about my wellbeing. And I them, of course.

It would certainly be better than the one-sided relationship I have ongoing with my laptop, Betty III.

(Reading it back that sounds a little strange. To be clear, I named my laptop as a joke – I do not actually consider it a person… If that were the case, it certainly would not take Sherlock Holmes to detect why I’m a social pariah.)

To be truthful I do not know why no one particularly cares for me, and it is a question which plagues me night after night. Is there something wrong with me? Do I look strange? Do I smell funny?

(Such is my paranoia of the latter, I have racked up a fortune on every make-up product known to man, gone on every diet invented, and bought thousands of lotions and perfumes.)

 

 

 

 

 

So far, nothing has worked. More times than I can count I have changed my hair colour, my make-up and my scent; researched some revolting popular culture for conversation starters and even amended my personality.

All to no avail. 

Maybe I’ll never know what exactly I do that is so repellent (before you say it, this blog is the only place I complain or whinge about my life).

But I almost wish I did.

 

Oh, it’s the least wonderful time of the year.

Christmas is a time of expectation; mirroring that of the wise men as they travelled hundreds of miles to meet with Jesus. It is also a time of new beginnings; because the birth of Jesus – whether literally or fictionally – brought everlasting change to the world, and impacts our lives to this day.

Oh, it’s the most wonderful time of the year.

As we “dream of  a white christmas”, “deck the halls” and erupt into random outbursts of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” …

… it is easy to forget the Christmas period also possesses the highest suicide rate.

Those who remind us of it … are labelled as the “Grinch” – as if to express negativity during the holidays makes one contract a disease, with symptoms including green skin, a ginormous height and an absence of Christmas spirit. Diagnosis is quarantine; exile from the family Christmas party and a name on the naughty list, because as the embodiment of the man in green they ruined the blissful attitude of the peace and new beginnings associated with Christmas.

So then why is it our unhappiness blooms into fruit now? Is it – as experts argue – the constant bombardment of photos of Christmas parties on the internet, of picturesque families on the streets and people’s irrational holiday cheer?

For me personally … no.

For me it is the resurfacing of a boy I try my hardest to forget.

A boy I once called my best friend, my hero, my salvation; an otherworldly person who saved me from someone. But he could not save me from myself, nor he from himself. At perhaps the core of my troubles he lies; my feelings for him forced to the back of my mind and brought out only during my blackest days.

I miss him, but I cannot forgive him and I know he will never ask for forgiveness.

Yes as Christmas has approached his name is mentioned in increasing frequency. Friends we once shared tell me as acquaintances of his wonderful Christmas party, of the gifts he gave them and what he is doing with his life now. It is this that personally destroys any semblance of Christmas cheer in my heart; marring the smile on my face with insincerity and the happiness expressed in my words with falsehood.

I love him. But he will never know.

And I will never forget.

 So to edit a beautiful song written by two wonderful men, and tarnish their glorious holiday message … for me Christmas is the ‘least wonderful time of the year’. I would love to lie and say I adore Christmas – as I am sure would be preferred – but this blog is my only platform for freedom of expression, and thus I chose to write the truth.

However Christmas is associated with New Beginnings, and it signals the renewal of the Church Year. I hope this year I may too experience a new beginning. That is “all I want for Christmas”.

Survival of the (not so) fittest.

Last week I spent hard-earned and scrupulously saved money in bulk on various beauty products. I would like to say it was as a result of the fatigue, caffeine-overdose and stress brought on by a week of terrifying and rigorous mocks, but likely it was with the desperation and fervor of a true teenager attempting to ‘fit in’ by beautifying.

Yeah … except my make-up desk is even worse.

With despair in my heart and my purse when my new all-organic face-masks failed to clear up my stupid spots, and my new make-up failed to hide them … I guess you could say it was ironic today I went out and spent a fiver on junk food to make me feel better.

On a day where break was spent moping in the toilets and my attempts to ‘fit in’ were undermined by my own exterior, shyness and other’s oblivion …

It is funny (and unhealthy) my happiness came from a Marks and Spencers cookie and a couple of episodes of Boardwalk Empire; a lifestyle which will in thirty years – if it hasn’t already – gift me with atherosclerosis, diabetes and heart troubles to name a few problems on a long risk of potential diseases.

Darwin’s theory of “survival of the fittest” is well known. With this lifestyle – barring my random bursts of dieting – no I’ll never be the fittest. However arguably more importantly I will survive school and hopefully enter the field of science. So in my first act as a hopeful maybe-one-day scientist, I would like to adjust Darwin’s theory to include the “survival of the (not so) fittest”.

Dr Jekyll and Mister Hyde

To misquote … someone:

“A blog a day keeps the doctor away.”

It would appear I am starting a New Year’s Resolution early; blogging. Perhaps it would be good to vent away from the listening ears and preying eyes of my mother, and hopefully this won’t turn out to be yet another half-filled diary regaling the amazing adventures of yours truly.

Regardless “diary” seems ever so childlike in an age my peers are doing everything they can to be considered adults; from posting photos of them smoking pot on facebook to throwing in a (hopefully correct) elipsis mid-sentence in an attempt to sound smart. Having received 84% from a woman who vowed at the start of the year if we wanted eighties or nineties in AS English we could ‘dream on’, I guess I am feeling somewhat cocky.

(Yes, I am that attractive)

Despite my status as a Virgin(blogger), I must admit it is somewhat nice having the truth I never tell floating outside in cyberspace where likely no one will ever read it. In many ways I feel like this duck floating around in the waters of Hofman – except only about half as awesome and a third as cute.

So to be boring and serious – not typical and stereotypical for a change – I think I might enjoy having a platform to be myself for once. One where I’m away from all the pretense and drama of school, the facade of happiness and the smile plastered across my face – one where I can be as unique as I want and not get brutalised for it.