Twenty-one, Not Six

Okay… I was going through my drafts again to see what I could edit and what I could get rid of. There’s no editing this one because it was a rant. I don’t remember what I was feeling or thinking at the time I started this. It doesn’t look like it’s in terrible shape though, so I’ll just publish it as is.

It’s been a freaking long time, a freaking long time since I’ve been happy with myself. And I don’t mean putting on an outfit and liking it and leaving the house with a smile because I think I look great. I mean…me, as a person, in my environment, in relation to the people around me.

When was the last time I felt okay with myself? My body? Forget that. Maybe a little after my first period…the question is, when did I start being unhappy with my body? What about my ideas? I don’t think I’ve ever been accepted with those. What I think has, most of the time, been at odds with the majority. In relation to other people, I feel like crap. I reach out, and I get turned away. Then I get criticised for not wanting to mingle with the same people who turned back my efforts in the first place. How the hell does that work?

I’m so upset that I’m so emotional. My life would be so much better if I wasn’t. Why do I over think everything? Why do I worry about everything? I completely kill myself with my mind. And I don’t get it. It’s not something I do on purpose. It’s not something I want to do. I just do it. It’s like a part of me, like a limb. I didn’t grow any of them on purpose. They’re just all there. What the hell am I supposed to do about this? I’m freaking twenty-one years old. I’m not six. Why can’t I grow up and be strong?


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