i feel as though i’ve lived my teenage years a little backwards.
at thirteen to fourteen, i was a reject, i know that. one of the last to discover makeup and hairdye, pushed aside by my early-developing friend who got the attention i craved so bad and forever shunned by the boys i so desperately clung to.

that was when, at fiteen, i got back in touch with a childhood friend. she was an outcast, she wasn’t cool, she laughed at my jokes and put me in her msn name, she let strangers know how cool she thought i was, and for once, just once, i was in control, i was the one pulling the strings, and it felt good. i never meant to be manipulative but i guess on a second look, i was. i turned into the very thing i despised. but we were happy, and she didn’t mind, so we carried on until the drugs arrived.
i spent a year or so in that state.

i got drunk. no, i got fucking lathered. every single night for lord only knows how many months. i kissed guys, i lied about sleeping with people. i had control, i wore makeup and stuffed my bra. i never slept with anyone, but i flirted and manipulated and i broke boys hearts, just because i knew i could, and i enjoyed it.
i tried drugs, i thought i was cool. i admit it, i didn’t even think of how immature i looked, parading around with my obviously super-sized boobs and my wicked attitude and my bitchy demeanour.

at sixteen, high school finishing, i settled down somewhat. i passed my exams and fell out of touch with friends.

i told people i went to college; i didn’t. i never even applied. i just wanted to stay at home where these people couldn’t see me and judge me on my own past, as i was already starting to do. so that’s exactly what i did, i told my family, my friends that i was going to college each day for two weeks, and i went and i sat in a field by my house and i cried. i cried for wasted opportunities and how much i envied all the girls in the world. not even particular ones. just, girls.

because they didn’t know the hardship that was my life.

of course, i realise now that everyone goes through the same shit, nobodies problems are worse than the next (something i’ll no doubt explore another time, one when i’m not half-unconscious from lack of sleep), but i matured. i did mature. and now everyone else is out drinking, they’re experimenting with drugs and i’m left in my bedroom reading my books and doing my sewing because that, is the character i’ve created for myself.

or should i say, creating.

i’m still brewing.