It's Hard.

It's hard.
Always being paranoid of other, prettier, more popular girls talking about you.
Only because of who you hang out with.
And because one of them used to be one of your friends.
But she changed.
Now she only says hi to you once a month, if even that, depending on who's with her when she passes you in the hallway.
Her friends give you dirty looks when you say hi to her.
Their stares only say terrible things.
‘Why does she think she’s friends with our best friend?’
‘She’s so weird.’
‘What a loser.’
You can only imagine them saying things to each other.
But from stories you’ve heard, they’re not that far off.
You stress the whole way home.
The whole night.
You cry yourself to sleep.
It's hard.
Always being compared to your sister.
With her beautiful voice.
Her beautiful hair, which you share, but you tie it up.
Her…everything.
"Your sister is so talented!" they say.
"Do you sing too? Do you do theatre?" they ask.
Yes, and I'm just as good as her, or I will be in a few years, you want to say.
But you just nod.
"That's nice," they say, and walk away to go congratulate your sister.
Leaving you to stand alone, waiting for her to leave her many admirers and drive you home.
You cry yourself to sleep.
It's hard.
Being eight years older than the other girls in one of your dance classes, and being the only high schooler in your other class, full of middle schoolers.
Never feeling like you'll be thin enough to do everything you dream of doing.
Knowing all your friends think you're better than you are, and wanting to impress them.
Knowing that you never will be able to.
You stretch every day.
You work your turns and jumps until you finally get them.
That moment of victory comes.
You try it on your right side, not just your left.
You fall.
Over and over.
What a waste of time spent.
Being uneven will never get you anywhere.
You cry yourself to sleep.
It's hard.
Being the one your mother chooses to worry about.
She chooses to worry about your weight.
"Have you weighed yourself lately?" she asks.
No, you say.
"Go weigh yourself," she commands.
You follow her order and trudge upstairs to get the scale.
You know you won't be happy with the number displayed in harsh black digits.
Three pounds.
Up three pounds in three weeks.
You go downstairs trying to hide the tears.
"What was it?" your mother asks.
You subtract four from the number on the scale.
Just like you always do.
"You’ve gone up,” she says.
Disappointed.
Disapproving.
She asks again two days later if you’ve weighed yourself lately.
It never ends.
You cry yourself to sleep.
It’s hard.
Looking in the mirror.
Finding every fault about yourself.
One eyelid is bigger than the other.
It’s only obvious with eyeshadow.
You take it off.
“Why don’t you ever wear eyeshadow?” your friend asks you in English.
“You would look so much prettier.”
Your eyebrows are too thick.
You try plucking them, but there are too many stray hairs.
You aren’t allowed to get them waxed.
You have ugly scars on your legs.
You get marks on your stomach when you sit.
Because the fat is too heavy, you think.
Your face breaks out too easily.
You can’t stop destroying that girl in the mirror.
You cry yourself to sleep.
It’s hard.
Never knowing when your sister will lash out at you.
You do the smallest thing.
What day do you graduate? you ask.
“The 24th,” she answers.
Oh, darn, I’ll miss the premiere of my favorite show, you say jokingly.
Of course you would go to your own sister’s graduation.
She yells at you for being inconsiderate and selfish.
You feel like a terrible person.
You go home, and your mother yells at you for something.
You feel more like a terrible person.
You cry yourself to sleep.
It’s hard.
The smallest things upset you.
You’re constantly reminded of your flaws.
They overshadow you, adding to the anxiety.
Your mother gets mad at you for forgetting to do something.
You think she tells you you’re a terrible person.
A failure.
Like you ruin the family.
The panic attack sets in.
The uncontrollable scratching.
Clawing at your stomach.
Your leg.
A towel.
Anything you can grab hold of.
Biting your hand so you don’t scream, so you stop scratching.
Sobbing so hard you get a migraine.
You get dizzy.
You freak out every time you’re, well, anywhere.
Anywhere you don’t want to – can’t – have another panic attack.
You’re paranoid.
Even at home.
You don’t want your mom finding out.
You don’t want her to treat it like it’s nothing.
Just like she did with the bullying of last year.
Just like she did with your anxiety this year.
Just like she still does.
You’re stressed beyond belief.
You cry yourself to sleep.
It’s hard.
Liking the people you like.
Like isn’t even the right word.
But so much has gone wrong.
You’re afraid to use the word love.
Because you always get hurt.
You fall too hard.
Too fast.
‘Romeo Syndrome.’
That’s what you and a friend call it.
You can’t stop thinking about what it would be like.
If he were mean to you.
Even when he’s so nice when he finds out.
Not like, “Oh, the stupid little freshman likes me!”
More like, “We’re still good friends. I’m still here for you.”
But ever since that day, that rehearsal, it’s changed.
Now you worry about what he really thinks.
He’s so chill about everything.
But what if that’s just an act?
What if, every time he semi-flirts with you, it’s an act?
Every time he makes you blush, he’s faking?
You know he’s a skilled actor.
After all, you’ve been in shows together.
You feel awkward.
You screw up while texting him.
Making things more awkward.
You can’t stop thinking about it.
About him.
About how much you want to be with him.
Even if people judge you for it.
If people make fun of you.
Even when you know he would never like you.
Not like that.
You can’t stop the stress.
The stress of another lost possibility.
Another lost chance.
You cry yourself to sleep.
It’s hard.
Reaching out to people.
Wanting for them to tell you it’s okay.
But all you get is someone worrying obsessively about you.
Every time you’re sad.
Every time you’re mad.
Every time you’re just plain annoyed.
They try to read you.
They try to overanalyze everything you do.
You just want to be understood.
Not judged.
“I’m not judging you.”
That endless refrain is all you ever hear when you’re serious about something.
How far from the truth is that?
All you need is a hug.
You want to open up to him.
The one you’ve had your eye on since October.
The one you never thought you’d love.
The one who knows everything.
How much you like him.
How much of an idiot you are with guys.
He gives the best hugs, you think.
But you won’t.
You won’t tell him.
You can’t.
You’re too scared.
Scared of him leaving.
You can’t deal without his friendly greeting before third period.
Without the harmless, almost flirty teasing.
You want for people to know what you’re going through.
But you’re afraid of humiliation.
Mortification.
Embarrassment.
You can’t let anyone see what you’re going through.
You look at your friends.
You see what they’re going through.
It’s so much worse, you think.
I can’t tell them about my thoughts.
They’ll say, “You think your life is hard? Well, try…”
And they go on about how their life is much worse than yours.
And you just want to tell them.
But you put on a smile.
You cry yourself to sleep.
And you keep silent.
You never speak.
Not about what matters, at least.
How you just want things to go back to first semester.
How you never feel good enough.
How you try so hard, but still don’t succeed.
How your mother is driving you towards an eating disorder.
How you’re never happy with yourself.
How you can never please anybody.
How you get panic attacks at almost any little thing.
How you never had him and still keep going back to him, though he won’t take you.
How you can never open up to people, for fear they’ll leave you.
And you keep silent.
You never speak.
Not about what matters, at least.
No.
You just cry yourself to sleep.
Thinking to yourself, I deserve to be happy too.
But you know what the thing about being happy is?
It’s hard.