All I want to get out of high school is knowing that I got all I could out of the experience. Good grades, enough friends, and maybe possibly become a better person along the way. I have done all of those things and more, so why am I still miserable? Because my average is a point lower than I want? So a 101 isn’t good enough for me? Or maybe because I don’t have 30 guys falling for me at a time. You’d think since I barely flirt with anyone, I would understand why I’m not that girl that has guys knocking down her front door. Or because I’m one of the few single people left in my group of friends. My obnoxiously high standards probably play some part in that. Because I don’t have a flat stomach. Even though I get called skinny on a regular basis. Because I can’t sing as well as I’d like to, even though I’ve gotten every part I wanted in the last 3 shows I was in. Because my nose isn’t straight. Because my ears stick out. And both of those issues define if I’m pretty or not? Nothing is enough anymore. My own standards for myself are making me miserable. The one of the worst things that can inside a person is when you get sick of yourself. Random little things, that make me hate myself. I sit at home reading and I’m okay with that. I’m not hysterical and fun all the time, and I’m afraid of people in so many ways. I’m a bitch when people don’t even try to understand me, but hate me anyway. I cry three times a week minimum. I feel awkward at parties. I don’t tell people about the sensitive areas of my life, because I don’t want anyone to know me fully. I have secret crushes still, because rejection makes me hate myself more than I already do. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m trying to be happy. I really am. It’s not working. My friends are getting sick of me. I’m invited to less and less. I haven’t flirted with a guy I like in at least 6 months. And there’s several couples that, whenever I see them, I feel a wave of unrequited love pass over me, even though I know that none of them would have ever worked. And almost all of my friendships that still exist feel like I’m putting more into them than I’m getting out. I just want to be happy.
Everyday when I walk home, I take out my cellphone. I open it, and hold it up to my ear. And I just talk. I say anything and everything that goes through my mind. I talk about the day’s events: my friends, teachers, clothes, enemies, insecurities, weather, beauty, and myself. I feel like it’s the only time I’m not wearing a fucking mask. I laugh when I make jokes. I cry when I bring up the crap in my life. I stop on the side of the road when my words overcome me, and walking is no longer a possibility. And finally, no one is judging me. It’s the rare moment when I don’t even judge myself.
I’m just waiting for the day when there’s actually someone on the other side of the phone. Because talking to no one is terribly depressing.
Just like the 9057398267298 people everywhere. I want to like myself. But I can’t. Sorry. My friends tolerate me. I’m afraid of people. My chest is collapsing. I’m not fun anymore. I write poems, but they suck. I watch movies, and I have hope and dreams that will never happen. Love doesn’t exist. I’m ugly. No one will ever want me, and if he does, I’ll fuck it up anyway. I don’t deserve everything I have.
