The Truth Is...

The truth is… I am a complicated person. I have many flaws. I have many peeves. I have many insecurities. But I quite like that about myself. I have been blessed with the daily challenge of figuring out and understanding why I am the way I am. What made me who I am? Mistakes. Tears. Regrets. Great joys and great failures. The list could go on but I’m sure mine is quite similar to yours. The nature of life itself brought me to where I am today. Though in my opinion, it could’ve written my fate on a nicer path.

The truth is… I definitely have O.C.D. Maybe not the most extreme form of it, but it is certainly present in my system. Needing to know precisely what I’m doing and at what time for the coming week, putting items on in a certain order e.g. necklace first, then rings, bracelets, etc. , eating my food in a particular order. Okay you get my point. Is it something of my concern? Not in the slightest. I also keep a list of everyone who has read my blog and each time I get another view from someone, I put a smiley face sticker next to their name. I keep it under my pillow.

I’m joking, obviously. I can’t even see who actually reads my blog. So calm down, I’m not a fucking stalker.

The truth is… I’m a self-confessed stalker. On Facebook only though, anywhere else would be creepy. Oh, and Twitter. And sometimes Bebo, if the mood is right. This requires extreme cuteness and concentration. No-one should know about the uncanny amount of time I spend looking through peoples’ old photos. I repeat no-one.

The truth is… I’m a good liar. This, my friends, is a talent. Not an admirable one but a talent nonetheless. It requires credibility and muscular control – one twitch and you’re out. I try to be as honest as possible, for the most part. Unfortunately it is not always easy to resist a little white lie here and there. By the way, calling it a ‘white lie’ does not justify anything. It does not clear my name. It just makes me a chancing little lying fuck.

The truth is… I want to run away. Anywhere would do me. I’m not a fussy person. But preferably somewhere with Starbucks and Americans. I feel that this growing urgency has arisen from the knowledge that, had I not spent an extra year in school, I would be starting my life in just over six months. By that I am referring to college life. I am an impatient person. It is an undeniable flaw of mine. If I had it my way, I would be living somewhere abroad now, getting paid to write this shit.

The truth is… I am a romantic. Yes it may seem unlikely and surprising for those of you that don’t know me, but I am weak for all things lovey-dovey. Well, most. But come on, I write poetry. You should have seen this coming. I shan’t go into details as it is rather hard to explain. Let’s just say I can be quite sentimental and the finest of details are majorly important to me. See? O.C.Freakin.D.

The truth is… I still battle depression. Not as often as before, thank God. But it is still prominent enough to be seen as a characteristic of mine. It doesn’t hit on a regular basis but when it does, it hits like the Titanic hit the iceberg. I sink into an unknown darkness and there is no escaping the resulting effects. Loss of the ability to speak, hysterically crying and/or screaming, isolation – these are just a few. Luckily it doesn’t last very long – a week at most.

The truth is… I live for the weekends. As do most socialising teens my age. Not for the nights out and heavy drinking sessions, however. That’s not my scene. Simply for the freedom to do as I please (within reason) and go as I please (also within reason). I don’t think I have had a stay-at-home weekend at all this year, which is incredible. Thanks to my O.C.D tendencies I always have plans at the ready.

The truth is… I prefer girls. Don’t question it, just accept it as all of you did on hearing that I was bisexual. It doesn’t change anything. Just that I am more likely to have a girlfriend than a boyfriend. That does not give you the right to call me a lesbian. That statement was for all you lazy-ass motherfuckers that can’t/couldn’t be bothered to recollect any other term besides ‘gay’. Yeah, fuck you all. I don’t have a problem with lesbians or being a lesbian. But if I was a lesbian I would’ve said it. So it pisses me off that some people decide to alter my sexuality simply because it rolls off their tongue easier. Also, just because I am attracted to girls does not mean I am attracted to all girls. “I don’t feel comfortable getting changed in front of you”. Oh please, don’t flatter yourself. Funny story actually, I once found out that all of a group of my friends had shifted each other. All of them. The so-called straight ones. Anyway, one of them actually said to me “We didn’t ask you because you might’ve liked it”. All I could do was laugh. For those of you that were a part of that group activity, I would never touch off one of you, even if it was only “for the laugh”. Just saying.

The truth is… Music is my life. I could not last a day without it. I wake up to music, get dressed to it, drive to school with it playing, and then when I get home my iPod is permanently on in my bedroom. It’s on right now. “Just Give Me a Reason” by Pink, for those of you that were wondering. Music helps me to find ways of expressing myself. Though it may not seem it, writing is very closely linked to music. And I don’t just mean because you write lyrics, obviously. Music helps me to decide on my emotions; writing allows me to express them. I listen to a wide variety of artists, ranging from My Chemical Romance to One Direction. I do not associate by who they are, but rather what they write about. Lyrics are the most important aspect of a song for me. The song “A Year from Now” by Across Five Aprils involves no actual singing. The lyrics are spoken, accompanied by acoustic guitars. The words are so powerful that no melody is needed. If you are suffering from a broken heart and are longing to find someone that understands, I would suggest you look it up.

The truth is… I have self- harmed. As you all know, I have had this blog since the beginning of September. Since then I have wondered would I ever speak about this. But it’s the truth. It’s a part of me. When I speak about being “scarred for life” I mean it literally. At the time I felt it helped me. A few weeks after I started regretting it. Now I look back and don’t regret it at all. If you lose respect for me because of that, so be it. When I look at my scars I don’t see failure or pain. I see the battles that I have been through and the war I have won.

The truth is… I have amazing friends. Most of them will probably give out to me for writing that. But yes, I love them. They are the only group of friends that I have ever had that fully accept me for who I am. And one of the best parts is I know they’ll be reading this because they support what I do. Guys, I freakin’ love you. Mwah.

The truth is… Writing is my passion. My name seems to have been far too associated with sport growing up. Perhaps because my writing habits have only really surfaced the past year. But honestly, forget sport. Writing is everything to me. I physically need writing to survive. I love the feeling at the end of writing something, especially is you feel it’s something special. Basically what I’m saying is I’m a writer. Not a soccer player or a footballer, not a musician – a writer. Anyone that says otherwise doesn’t understand me. But I have faith that most of you reading this do. After all, it’s because of you that I have so much inspiration.

How Not To Get Over Your Ex

As we are fast-approaching the big V-day, most of us are probably wishing we could indulge in a day of romance with that one person we long for. Luckily I am awaiting my first ever Valentine’s Day as a girlfriend. But for those of you who aren’t quite so fortunate, this post is dedicated to you. To ensure that complete isolation is achieved, I have devised a simple set of guidelines I would recommend you follow. You’re welcome.

1.     Whip out the Adele album

Or any other record that can convince you just as easily that your life is as good as over without your beloved. Tracks like “Don’t You Remember” and “Someone Like You” are sure to keep you in touch with your feelings of dejection and melancholy, leading inevitably to a longing for the gentle caress of your ex-lover. With thousands of love songs at your disposal thanks to good ol’ YouTube, you can experience hours and hours of agony with the click of a button. Heck, if you’re feeling lazy you can even Google ‘heartbreak songs’, or something of similar meaning. Sorted.

2.     Movie nights in.

If the tunes aren’t doing enough for you, why not re-enact a night when you and your ex cuddled up on the sofa for a romantic movie marathon? It’s just as fun on your own, if not better. Duvet to yourself, double the amount of popcorn, and no time-consuming kisses which divert your attention from the screen.

Okay I’m lying here, you’re going to be feeling pretty crap if you do that. But hey, this is how not to get over your ex. I’m meant to be making you feel like crap.

Thinking-out-loud session over, moving swiftly on.

3.     Call them, maybe?

Make it a daily occurrence. Set a reminder on your phone or write it on your hand if necessary. When they stop answering, put your number on private. The curiosity will force them to pick up. When they block your number do not despair, they have only blocked one number. You have access to many numbers. Do not hesitate to avail of them. Hesitation is an admission of defeat.

4.     Socialising also admits defeat

The night you decide to join your friends on a fun night out is the night you have lost the battle. These ‘friends’ are not trying to “help you” they are attempting to ruin your life. If your ex sees you out having a good time (which you obviously won’t have anyway, because you’re miserable) they will immediately assume you are over them. And you don’t want that, oh no. As the wise words of Adele told us, your life is over without love. Basically what I’m saying is this:

Friends = life ruiners.

Fun = death-trap.

Adele = lyrical Goddess.

Do the right thing – stay at home. Preferably alone.

5.     Major stalking sessions are vital

Once again, this should be a daily occurrence. If not, you’re giving up. Want to be known as a quitter? No? Then get your ass onto Facebook, Twitter or whatever social networks they are a part of. Their name should be prominent in your search bar. ‘Like’ all their oldest pictures - it shows your level of interest in a most positive manner. Send them long messages – they will appreciate the amount of thought you spent on them. In fact, leave a short message on their profile every time they cross your mind. “I’m thinking of you” is always a nice one. Make sure it’s public so as that everyone can see your thoughtfulness. It’s a no-brainer.

6.     Keep everything

By this I mean all the things you have gathered during the relationship such as love letters, pictures, or even the teddy they won you at the funfair (when does that ever actually happen?). Buy the perfume/after-shave they use or even the fabric conditioner they wash their clothes with. This will satisfy all cravings for their scent long after it is gone. Keep buying their favourite brand of chocolate in case they ever call over – you don’t want to be caught empty handed when you should’ve been anticipating their knock, or they’ll never return. Also, it’s been proven that 87% of relationships are mended over a bar of chocolate.

That last sentence wasn’t true. Sorry, I got carried away.

7.     Leave them notes

This involves a tad more sneakiness on your behalf. If you’re in school with them, drop a note on their desk or in their bag. Do it at a time that would be seemingly impossible, like when both of you are not in the vicinity of the school. Or so it seemed, wink wink. If school is not an option you may have to go with the more obvious approach and write your message in chalk outside their house. Or bedroom window. Or if their window is open why not seize the opportunity and jump right in? A few loving words under a pillowcase is no crime, is it?

8.     Analyse everything they say

If they make statuses or tweets, they are most likely targeted at you. If they share song videos or even mention them, yep it’s probably because the song reminds them of you. If their status reads “Loving the single life” that is most definitely a challenge set for you. They want you back. They thought they were happy being single before they met you, now they want you to woo them all over again. They’re so in love with you, it’s quite cringy how obvious they’re making it. Go get them back, tiger.

The Question Of Our Generation - Who Am I?

If I was to ask any one of you the question “Who are you?” I suspect most would immediately tense up and experience the phenomenon of ‘going blank’. I was once asked that very question and although I was answering it through text, I felt under a certain amount of pressure to get it right. As if it was an exam question. Almost as if the person was going to turn around and say “No actually you’re wrong”. And therein lies the problem. Why did I feel so mistaken and tentative of the one question surely only I could know the answer to?

The society we live in today is so narrow-minded that anything that would be considered different is frowned upon. And I’m not suggesting that one specific group does all the dictating of what the ‘norm’ is, no. Hands high in the air, we all do it. If you wear dark clothes and have more than one facial piercing you’re an emo. If you wear hoop earrings and Adidas tracksuits you’re a chav. If you wear five-inch heels and half an outfit you're a slut. Okay perhaps the last one is understandable but look at the other two examples. I wear tracksuits AND listen to Black Veil Brides, so what does that make me? Apparently a “chemo”. Go figure.

It amazes me that in this day and age people are for some reason unable to express themselves in whatever manner they wish to. I mean, celebrities do it all the time. They wear ridiculous outfits and do ridiculous things, and just because of their status, it becomes fashionable or acceptable. Think of Lady Gaga, for example. People have simply embraced her whacky outfits because her name means something. If I was to go around wearing a meat dress I would be butchered, pun intended.

So can anyone actually tell me why we conform to society’s ‘rules’? Eventually, I believe we will all simply become one person. One frame of mind, one way of life; it will be the end of individuality. Evolution will morph all beings into one and create a sort of Herrenvolk, with society as our Hitler. In my opinion it’s already happening. People are lacking the confidence to break whatever clichéd stereotype they fit into. Plenty of people are well-able to boast of how they don’t care what people say or think of them, but when it comes to it they’re all just as insecure and self-conscious as the next. To be quite honest, I think there’s only one real way of determining who you are – process of elimination. At least that’s what worked for me.

I must’ve gone through almost every pigeonhole under the sun, failing each time to find a suitable ‘me’. I never felt comfortable behind all those masks that were never the right fit. In my case, all the chopping and changing of my personality and social appearance led to people questioning who I even was anymore. Should they have asked, I would have had no response. I was lost in this fantasy world that I had created. A world where I could become a new character every week and no-one would care because it was my story. Turns out life doesn’t work that way.

When I lost everything, I was stripped bare. I had nothing to hide behind anymore; no safety net to fall back on. All I was left with was me. That same person that had watched her own downfall as if she were an on-looker. I was left with two options. I could become invisible and let the world pass by without ever contributing to its existence. Or I could start from scratch and re-invent myself. Become the person I wish I had been from the start. So that’s exactly what I did. I made bold choices, I spoke my mind, and you know what? I actually began to gain a shred of respect for what I was doing. Even by writing this post I am breaking society’s rules. I’m not meant to have a voice louder than others; I shouldn’t be so comfortable with having my thoughts and feelings scrutinized by others. Where did this newfound audacity arise from?

Possibly when I realised that limitations and I did not sit very well together on this balance board of life. One of us was going to have to go, and you’ll never guess who it was. Yes, it was I. Being so restricted and knowing that one foot wrong could be disastrous was too much for me to handle. It was as if I was being slowly pushed along the plank of life towards an inevitable death, yet one trip-up and I would fall to an early grave, drowning in my own regrets and “what ifs”.

I still struggle to answer the question “Who are you?” but at least I have the bones of an answer now. I hope that one day people will realise that to be different is to have the strength of hundreds to do what each of them could only ever imagine doing – being themselves.

Living Under A Reign Of Hate

As I sit here searching for inspiration, to no avail, I let my eyes wander a while. It is then that I realise my inspiration is sitting right before my eyes. This inspiration is being drawn from long-held feelings of anger, hate, bitterness and resentment towards one specific individual. One person I severely struggle to be civil with at the best of times. Maybe I should “get over it”. Maybe I should let go. But what if it is beyond me to ever forgive this person? Surely for all the blood I have spilled I am allowed this one exception. One person that stimulates every fibre in my body to stiffen when our eyes (very, very rarely) meet. Am I not owed at least that?

My loathing of her is seeded so deep within me that it has stemmed a whole new meaning of the word ‘hate’. This is not a word I merely use for descriptive purposes, no. This is an emotion so over-powering that I can no longer disguise it on the outside. She knows I despise her. And there will never be anything she can do to change that. No “sorry” will ever account for what she stole from me – my innocence. The pain she caused my family and I is insurmountable. This is one reason she will never be forgiven. Perhaps another cause of my austere alienation is that an apology on her behalf is implausible.

Why is one always expected to forgive endlessly? It’s not always a rite of passage, although some seem to think it is. Everyone is capable of forgiving, I know that. But to forgive someone is a choice; to receive forgiveness is a blessing. Blessings should be earned, not thrown around freely.

I sometimes wonder “Why her?”. Out of all the people I could hate and all the people I should hate, why her? It wasn’t her fault, what happened. She didn’t hurt me initially. Maybe if she did it wouldn’t be this hard to let go. As I said, she didn’t hurt me. But for months instead she stood there, shoulder to shoulder with the perpetrator, watching as I slowly broke into tiny fragments, shadowing the pieces as they fell, ensuring my pain remained in the darkness for as long as possible. An act which, to me, is completely immoral and repulsive.

To have the capacity to hate someone is a horrible trait. No words I ever write could justify the ruthlessness involved in hating someone. It is consuming and can plague your every thought. It can alter a mood within a brief moment. Maybe it is wrong of me to think so poorly of someone who, in her position, is so well-respected. But how can I respect someone that never showed an ounce of respect towards me? My words were twisted and manipulated so much so that the truth became tainted by the lack of belief in what I was saying. And how could I expect anyone to believe me when I didn’t even believe myself?

So what does it take to ignite this immense, indescribable feeling within us? I don’t believe we, as a race, were born to hate or hold grudges. It is not a gene which develops as it passes from generation to generation – we do not all have the ability to hate. People often abuse the word ‘hate’ in very pathetic circumstances. For example, today I received a surprise English test and exclaimed to my mom “I hate my teacher!”. That was a ridiculous exaggeration and a complete fail at attempting to use the word successfully. I believe that to feel hate with all that it entails you must first have experienced the most severe form of pain. Hate is not simply an external feeling; it is one which must be felt deep within before it ever surfaces.

We hate people for a countless number of reasons. We hate because we have been deceived. We hate because we have been betrayed. We hate because we have been stripped bare of our dignity and our self-respect. We hate because people we knew have changed. Conceivably sometimes we may even hate because someone we once knew has changed us.

Regardless of the background information, the results of these feelings remain the same. We are blinded by this reckless passion, and we then find ourselves drowning in this unprecedented rage which burns through our once thick skin, right to our core. The birthplace of our hate, our bitterness, our resentment and our torment. To hate someone is to concentrate negative thoughts and feelings towards them, and doing this so forcefully, in turn, has a negative impact on our own frame of mind. An underlying hint to us all that maybe we should learn to always forgive those who do us wrong. Not for their sake; for our own.

My Journey Through Hell

As I sit here listening to the rain beating off my window panes, I wonder why it is now that I have chosen to write about this. Do I feel under-exposed? Has this affair gone too unnoticed for my liking? Every day I am reminded of it. So many faces that were involved in some way bring it all back. Recently, bit by bit, I have been reliving it. All those tiny details have boiled up to this moment. I promise you, after tonight I will never write about this again. The rain is pounding now; a certain indication that this paragraph is due a mighty climax, right about now. So without further adieu, I would like to welcome you to the start of my story. My journey through hell.

It was late evening; I can’t remember the time exactly. It was two years ago after all. I was nervous, indecisive, scared. My heart was racing as I dialled the number. I got it wrong first time around; my hands were shaking too much, as they are right now. The phone rang, my chest went numb. Her sister answered – she recognised my voice immediately. There was hesitation on my behalf; mumbling voices on hers. The phone was passed over – the atmosphere changed suddenly. “What do you want?” or some other similar phrase was hissed down the phone at me. I splurged out the lines I had been rehearsing all evening. An agreement was reached – “tomorrow… lunch… outside”. And that was it. A two minute phone call that ended the life I had known.

I don’t remember much from the following day. To be honest, I’m not even certain what month we were in. Estimated guess, September or October. Not that it matters a whole pile. All that mattered to me was the 12:55pm bell. It was almost like a life or death situation. It rang. I froze. Was this really happening? Before I knew it I was face to face with her. Panic streaming through my veins. I should’ve asked her to come alone. I was being surrounded, even by people two years younger than me. I did what I came to do – apologise. I was met with extreme backlash. Insults were blasting holes through me from every angle. “Bitch, liar, lesbian, cunt, faggot, twat, bullshitter, attention-seeker”; I heard them all. Then out of nowhere came the one teacher that actually helped me in all of this. She asked what was going on. The girls laughed and told her we were just talking. The teacher asked my name. I was unresponsive. One girl gave me a fake name and told me to agree. Shame I couldn’t speak. I was told to go inside, and I did so without looking back, for fear I would be followed.

I sought refuge in my classroom. What had just happened? My thought process was abruptly interrupted when the girl I had wished to speak to appeared in the doorway, accompanied by her best friend/ sidekick. Within seconds they were screaming at me. I could feel my back edging closer and closer to the wall. “My dad told me I should beat you up… If it wasn’t for our sisters, I’d have you pinned against the wall by now”. The rest is a blur. Her sidekick was even worse. I hope no-one ever experiences verbal abuse like I did that day; it’s scarring. One final hurricane of words and they were gone. As I returned to my seat, I remember two people asking was I okay. I nodded, ignoring the terror on their faces. Shock had paralysed my body. It is unclear to me how the remainder of the day unfolded. However, I can assure you that was indeed the culmination of my day.

Dates are just numbers. Numbers are just a reminder of how lengthy this torture was. Let’s just go with a week.

A week later I was called out of class – the principal wanted a word. I was terrified. What had I done? She began to speak; I knew immediately where this was going. After what seemed like a lifetime of questioning, she asked could she bring the other girl in. Naturally, I said no. Somewhere in the midst of our discussion she handed me a small book. ‘Be-good-to-yourself Therapy’. Yes, I was in counselling at the time, but who gave you permission to tell me I’m fucked up? Within seconds there were three of us in the room. The fear returned. I was alone again. Even my principal’s body language suggested I was outnumbered. The girl sitting adjacent to me did not want to be there. She showed no remorse and denied everything. She insisted it was a fight; a two-way thing. I began to feel less like a victim and more like a guilty culprit. How was she doing this? I could see my principal being slowly enticed around the girl’s little finger. My only hope for safety was vanishing before my eyes, and all I could do was sit, cry and watch.

To recall precisely how this horror escalated would be impossible. It started with regular meetings. Every Thursday afternoon during double maths to be exact. Letting the whole class know indeed what was going on. Subtle Ms, very subtle. I would only have to see a shadow outside the door and I would be halfway across the room, knowing undoubtedly that I was the one being summoned from my seat. To begin with, we weren’t allowed into each other’s classrooms. That, to me, was a huge relief. Finally, somewhere I could escape the harassment. Therefore you can only begin to imagine the horror in my eyes when I walked into my newfound haven one lunch, only to find her and her friends sitting in and around my desk. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A sudden panic came over me and I rushed to find my principal – what we had been told to do if either broke the classroom agreement. I stood there silently and watched them be escorted from my room. If looks could kill…

I don’t know why I was surprised when I learned that they had been discussing me publically on Facebook. I found an old status the other day which was made by this girl. It read “OMG OMG OMG ul neva guess wat I found ……. (devil) u noo wat I mean now hahah I swear haha I am shocked haha”. Presumably this was written about my return to Facebook. A comment underneath from her sidekick read “haaaa omg ppl liiok ere shudnt b aloud on fb liok ….. sycoooo haaaa :D …. Dd it ask yhuu ta b friends wiv ere :/”. I apologise if you were unable to comprehend those horribly written comments. It pained me to write so grammatically incorrect.

Anyway, another meeting was called and this time there were six of us in the room: the girl herself, her sidekick, another of her friends, the principal, the vice principal and myself. I had accepted defeat before a word had been spoken. How could I stand any chance of being listened to when it was blatantly three against one? Everything I tried to say was shot down within seconds. The shouting was intolerable. I was asked if the third girl had any real involvement in the situation and I said no, meaning she was allowed leave the room with her reputation untouched. Yet she still managed to throw one final insult at me on her way out. This seemed to spark some sort of anger inside of the sidekick, because no sooner had the white door closed, she was standing beside me, screaming. “I have to leave, I’m so close to punching her” were the words that came from the anxious presence towering above me. Eventually she calmed down and re-joined us at the table. The discussion moved swiftly to the online abuse, which apparently was aimed at “no-one in particular”. That’s convenient. Then the joking commenced. The four of them were sharing quite a nice moment actually. Laughing, smiling, and wagging fingers humorously. It was an ideal picture of what a teacher-student relationship should be like, were it not for the pool of tears forming on the table below me. God, I ruin everything.

Quite frankly, it was one of the worst days I have ever experienced. To this day I hold a strong grudge against the one person in that room that could’ve saved me from months of misery. But she consciously made the decision to ignore my counsellor, my parents and most of all the truth, just to save her the trouble of perhaps having to write up a bullying report. Yes, I believe I was bullied. Not in the most extreme fashion, but just enough to damage every aspect of my being. In the end, we were both blamed for the drama we had caused.

I am still haunted by what I have just written about. I’m not sure how long it will follow me; maybe for the rest of my life. Forgive me if you were expecting worse from the title of this, but none of you will ever truly understand the depth of my torment. Here’s to you attempting, though.

Why 2012 Made Me

Who would’ve thought a year ago that I’d be sitting here today writing about the past twelve months? I certainly didn’t. Never mind actually having it on public display, for hundreds of people to read each week. This time last year I was insecure, timid, and most of all I was pretty broken. Sitting here tonight, I couldn’t be happier with the year I have had. Sure, there were ups and downs along the way; nothing is ever perfect. But as the title suggests, I feel 2012 has been ‘my year’. I have achieved so much – socially and personally. I hold no bitterness towards anyone (for the most part) and I have finally accepted who I am as a person and of course, who I look forward to becoming in the future.

As most of you know, the majority of my school life this year was spent in Transition Year. Many people regret this extra year, but for me it was one of the best decisions I have ever made. I learnt a lot about myself and the people I surrounded myself with. Along with all the photos and certificates I am now blessed with, I have also taken many other things from TY that no co-ordinator could ever take credit for. To be able to stand up for myself and what I believe in was a massive lesson for me. You come across so many different types of people in this life and there will never be enough hours in the day to figure all of them out. So instead, focus on figuring yourself out. Don’t change yourself for anyone; it’s not worth it. It took all of this year for me to relocate all the pieces of me I had lost along my journey the past few years, and now I am finally the person I always should have been. I have matured so much this year; I don’t even recognise myself sometimes. Teachers have even commented on the change. What can I say? I grew up.

This night last year I made a list of things I hoped to achieve in the coming year and I am proud to say I have accomplished eight out of ten. Not a bad result for a fuck up like me, eh? This year, however, there is only one thing that matters a huge amount to me – memories. Not reminiscing on them; making them. I have all the happiness I could ever ask for, now I just hope to capture it. The friendships I have now are the strongest I’ve ever had. I am determined to keep them this time around. Sometimes I sit in absolute disbelief when I think about my life. “You should write a book” is a statement many, many people have gasped when they learn of my story. At least now it looks like it could have a happy ending – unlike most of the stories involving me.

2012 has brought about some of what I consider the best parts of who I am now. The writing, for example, would never have emerged without the confidence I have gained this year. I think countless people underestimate how difficult it can be to put to paper an emotional trauma one may have experienced. Every blog post I have written has been related to my life and my own experiences. I simply hope someone somewhere will be able to relate to them and see that no amount of pain can last forever. I love the saying ‘When you’re going through hell, keep going’. Go backwards or just give up and you’re going to get burnt, right? I kept going and I can humbly and openly tell you that my scars have made me a stronger, more dignified person. I can look at my past, accept and respect my mistakes, and still take precious lessons from them.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that without every single memory I have of 2012, I wouldn’t be in the position I am now. Yes, occasionally I break down but on the whole I am far more stable and secure. I know how to deal with most situations and I feel like I would have to be pushed extremely hard to ever lose control again the way I have in the past.

I have always been one to compromise myself for others, but this newfound self-belief and confidence has shown me what a fool I have been. Once again, as most people already know, I no longer give a fuck about what people think of me. If you don’t like me, don’t talk to me. If you don’t like what I think, don’t read my blog. Simple as. I don’t hate anyone anymore; I just prefer it when certain people aren’t around. If you piss me off I’m not going to retaliate, I’m just going to write a blog about you instead. Simples.

I am curious as to what 2013 has in store for me. Will I still be writing next year? Will people still be reading my writing next year? What if I run out of things to say? Maybe a few more dramas wouldn’t be such a bad thing. After all, they’re the most interesting reads for you gossiping fuckers, aren’t they?

Drunk on the Loneliness of Solitude

With it being the festive season, I have come to the realisation that there is but one topic I could write about: being alone. I don’t just mean at Christmas, and I don’t just mean the type of alone where you are isolated and on your own. No, this kind of loneliness is much more painful. Some people are at their happiest when they are alone. I, however, am quite dangerous and even self-destructive on my own. Especially when I’m in a group of people having a “good time”. That pitiful cliché ‘feeling alone in a crowd full of people’ is sadly true for many people - myself included.

From the eyes of an onlooker, my life appears pretty good. I’m doing well in school; family life is worry-free; I’m in a relationship; I have friends. So why does this emptiness gnaw at my insides vigorously? I have no reason to feel this way, yet my heart is being dragged through a hurricane of emotions as I write this. A perfect day overshadowed by the torment of the mind. Perhaps paranoia has found a weakness in my persona; a small crack allowing room for major destruction.

How can I be fixed when, in fact, nothing is wrong? No triggers to be traced, no mistreatment to be found which may have brought about this feeling of complete isolation. It really is just me this time. Have I always been this way? Is this merely a build-up of emotions over a long period of time, leading inexorably to this collapse of stability and certainty? I am far from alone. I am surrounded by amazing people whom I am ever so grateful for, but even those that bring the greatest joy to me cannot comfort or reason for this pain I am going through. A pain of not only the mind, but the body also. Constant red, raw eyes, headaches and chest pain accompany the loneliness. A slight paradox there, it would appear.

It would be difficult for anyone to understand the frame of mind I am currently in, so therefore I have decided to express my emotions on paper rather than burden anyone with my inner issues. Apart from one or two I feel may be able to begin to console me. Unlikely though, considering how embroiled I have become in these emotions. My mind has succumbed to my heart’s cries, no – screams. These screams surfaced silently a few hours ago, bringing a tsunami of tears along with them, presumably just for good measures. Do I know why this happened? Yes. Why did it happen? Well…

If I told you I had no friends I would be lying. I have many friends. They mean a lot to me. How close they are to me, however, is a whole other ball game. In the past few years I have gone through so many groups of friends it’s ridiculous and quite frankly, it’s pathetic on my behalf. I see people that have kept the same friends they’ve had since primary school and I wonder where I went so terribly wrong. I used to have certain, solid best friends. Nowadays I still have friends, but no-one I would consider a real best friend. My old best friend has new social interests that I am yet to fathom, so we have inevitably gone our separate ways. Is it with age that we lose our bonds with people? No, once again I think this is just me.

I am not a recluse, I am innocent. This title is not one I have simply thought up of my own accord, I have been described by another as innocent. I seek happiness and enjoyment from ‘innocent’ things, such as going to the cinema or spending the day at a friend’s. I have no interest in spending my nights inebriated on a pavement down an alleyway. Or, as my age has now apparently permitted, in a nightclub surrounded by men and women twice the size (and age) of me. Because of my “boring” nature, I have found myself beginning to become a social outcast among my peers. Not because I spend my weekends behind closed doors though; if you’re looking for me during the weekend, town is your best bet. More so due to my liver being clear of any alcohol.

Has this sensibility brought about my own mental downfall and this overpowering isolation? Maybe it has, but either way I am in a lose-lose situation. I stay sober – I spend my nights alone. I go out and consume alcohol – I publically announce how alone I feel. Then again I am very publically posting a blog about it right now. Perhaps tonight I am simply drunk on emotions and perhaps tomorrow I will have sobered up, left only with a pounding headache from the night before.