I once read this book called the catcher in the rye. In it, the main character is obsessed with how fake, and phoney everything is. my life is so painfully, and beautifully full of this fakeness. me and my friends always remember the 23rd of june as being the best day. we had a fun day at school, and then a great weekend following. we took loads of pictures, and they all make me smile and laugh, and rememeber jokes from that day. but i looked at them today, and i remembered something, i was so heart acheingly unhappy on that day. i'd been 'dumped' a few days earlier, by someone i really loved. i hate that word dumped. it makes it all seem so childish, and stereotypical teenage relationship like nonsense. and it wasn't. it never is. even if the relationship is between two young idiots, who don't know what they want, emotions know no age or intellegence, people all feel, and a break up will always hurt someone. so yes, i looked at these pictures of me smiling, and i saw that they were lies. i saw that they were so fake and phoney. and it killed me.
this one day, that i hailed above all others. i had held it perfect in my memory, i could look back on it and smile, and it was all just a colourful facade.
I ended up getting back together with that boy.
I love him. its been two years now, and again i can look back and see ideal memories. i choose not to see the fights we have, the things i dislike in him, and that i disgree with him about. i choose to see the things i want to see. i even chose to view the break up how i wanted. i saw it as a time, where we decided we wern't working, so took some time off, despite still liking one another. i mean, you can see how i would have got this impression. when we got back together, he had told me he missed me. i had this stupid glamerous picture of us both pining, and wishing our love could be easy. then the other day, he decided the time was right to tell me that at this time when we broke up, he fancied someone else, but then decided that he probably liked me more.
he hadn't been missing, or hurting over me. he'd been happy, and flirting. He claimes to be jealouse because he'd seen me be close with a boy in that break up time. the only time i spoke to another boy in that time was with one friend, when i nearly cried, because i missed him. whereas he, was off flirting with others not caring.
i feel so horrible, and whiney and pathetic now. and i want to change what i've written so i sound better, and less of a horrible person, but then i'd just be even more fake and phoney. i want to write honestly, i want to show i really am feeling for the first time.
I feel like a bad person. and when i told him this, he got angry at me, because no-one should feel like a bad person. but its easy to see how i can. In my life i had one best friend for 12 years, then i came to highschool, and she left me for a different friend. so i befriended someone else, who reciently has left me too, in favour of a bay she hardly knows. I've loved one person, who dumped me, and liked someone else, before deciding i was worth loving too, and even he is constantly picking faults in me. it dosen't exactly overwhelm me with self confidence.
my mum regularly makes me feel like a dissapointment. i try to be at home as little as possible. but now where can i go?
i thought i was enough for him. thats the thing that kills me most, i thought we were good, i thought we were enough for each other, but he pines for change and for something else. he wants things i cant do and help him with. all i want is to feel loved. and thats such a horrible cleche to say, and i hate myself for saying it. but i havnt felt love in so long from anyone, and i just want to be loved. i want to know that someone truly likes me, and wants to spend time with me, i dont want to be a dissapointment, or second best or anything, i just want to be enough for someone.
and now i'm dying, because i want to share all this with someone, i want to show it to someone who dosen't think i'm being over dramatic, and who will listen and care for me, and i have no-one.