The Real Me

I was an ugly little kid, I cried a lot, whined a lot, complained a lot, talked a lot. I was never really popular with my snaggle teeth and all (thank God for braces) but now that I think back on it, even though I wanted it I am glad I never got it. I mean I see people every day in high school that are popular and I’m glad I’m not one of them. Not be offensive to anyone I mean observing the popular peoples behaviors it seems like they are all the same: high designer clothes (shoes included), outgoing personalities, rude judgmental glares, cheerleaders (not all of them are bitches). It seems like to be popular you have to be fake, you have you to be who someone wants you to be, and if you can’t meet those unspoken expectations, your out.

Even as a tiny little girl, I never met those unspoken rules, the invisible glass ceiling, I am not made out for it, it’s just not me. Bullied for a speech impediment at school and my ugly face at ballet practice (I’m telling you man some ballerinas you need to be careful around take it from me who did ballet for nine years). Even at home I was never safe from the harassment being the middle out of five children, everyone picked on me. Still I am bullied, though less at school except form some popular girls (see, brutal, mean, tyrannical) who somehow got the idea that I am homosexual (which I’m not), and at home, mainly at home from my alcoholic mother. I have never been good enough for anything, even at spots I am often left an outcast even if I am good at them, no one wants to be friends or seen talking to me. I am considered the lesbo freak at school.

High school is brutal; everyone says it’s the funnest time of your life, but what’s so fun about being bullied or hearing people whisper to and fro when you walk by, especially with a girl, a girl who’s your friend. If I could I would drop out, drop school entirely and get my GED, of course it would only mean that my mom is right: that I can’t do anything and should go rot in a hole and die, and I have to admit, that idea is very appealing to me, death. Silky creamy magnificent death, I know I know, death is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, I’ve heard it a hundred times and honestly I just don’t care. walk over to my house, grab me by my shoulders and scream it in my face shaking me as hard as you want for as long as you can, it still won’t change anything, all you would accomplish is hurting me worse than I already am, shattering an already broken girl.

I mean think about it for a minute, do you honestly think yelling in my face will the change the fact that I want to kill myself, have wanted to kill myself for over three years now? Okay fine it’s been longer than three years, more like five or six, but still. NOTHING. WILL. CHANGE!

I am sixteen, sixteen and I want to die, have wanted to since I was eleven, has had voices in my head since I was eleven freaking years old. God that’s a little fucked up now don’t you think, why me? Why do I have to be the ugly girl with the retainer, with the cheap clothes, the freak with the voices in her head telling her to go jump off a cliff? Why me? It’s not fair, but then again neither is life, I guess I should just grow up and get over it. Like Daniel, the boy I need to get over but can’t, the boy who died so long ago that I hardly knew, the boy in the photograph on my fridge, Daniel who died of Leukemia when he was five, Daniel who’s death I never really got over. It’s never good to carry the past around on your shoulders, you should let it go and leave it there, but you never get over the first death, no matter how young or old, I was five and am still carrying him after eleven years: still not able to let go, to say that final goodbye.

How strange it is that I want to say goodbye to my own life when I can’t even say goodbye to another person’s, it really makes no sense, but then not much does make sense here in my head where I thought it was perfectly reasonable to have best friend tree and rock when I was younger. And that’s not all, here in the fucked up land of me I thought it reasonable to starve myself, I thought it reasonable to try cutting, and bury myself in rock and heavy metal. The one thing I don’t think reasonable however and does not exist here, is love.

I mean what is love anyway? Is it the sting of a slap, the hug from a friend, voices in your head, agonizing poison of fucked up words someone tells you you are? I don’t get it, if you know could you tell me please, I would just like to know so I could imagine it, even once would suffice. I want to feel love once before I die, that is all, not sex (I don’t count that as love), but the feeling of being loved so I can say that I felt it and experienced once. I know that can never happen though, I am unlovable, unworthy of such a deed, to ugly and stupid for anyone to really and truly love me, and fat too. If I don’t starve myself I will become a obese fat pig, worse than I am now, I need to stay under one hundred pounds, if I don’t, I will lose it. Ugh, just glancing at myself in the full length mirror in the corner of my room makes me want to puke, such vile disgust! No wonder I can never be popular, who wants to be friends with me as fat as I am? Even I hate my disgusting fat stupid ass, it’s the most disgusting vulgar site I have ever seen!

If your wondering how I hate myself so easily, the answer is because I’ve been told so many lies and have been dealt so much hate, hating myself and viewing myself in the way I have been told by family and friends (though they do it jokingly and don’t know the effect it has on me), has become the way I think of myself, accept for being homosexual not that there’s anything wrong with it, I just prefer dicks to vaginas and boobs. Though both genders turn me on, I could never see myself together with a woman the way I can see myself being with a man, but with my ugliness and reputation for being homo, chances are that will never happen, not in high school at least, not in the “funnest” days of my life. Maybe in college I will get asked out, but I am average bordering on ugly, so I probably end up that little old hermit cat lady on the end of your street that bakes you cookies on the holidays and then will have a heart attack and all my fifty billion cats will eat me. But don’t cry for me, I am much too much of a loser for you to waste your tears on me, even though you probably will by reading this. If you pause to think about it, it’s never easy reading about someone’s life, mainly because it’s all true, and mainly because you might be able to relate to it, and maybe just maybe you might get caught up in the writing and feel what the writer feels, but you won’t do that with me, I am too stupid to do anything right, especially write something good enough to be able to that. So I won’t be upset if you turn the other cheek and quit reading this horrible crappy biography of me, I don’t mind much, but just in case you do want to read, and you do want to get to know the real me, then flip the page, go ahead, don’t be scared, I wont bite.