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OK, these are two of my own diary entries which I thought might work quite well together, almost as an essay/short story type thing. Apologies for the length, in advance.

6th July:

I’m in a funny, kind of mixed mood today – as if everything that I do is pointless and I feel more like I’m a spectator on the non-events of someone else’s life. What’s more, I’m only watching this nonentity of a person because I haven’t got anything better to do (which leads me back to being a nonentity).

Part of this is because of school. I haven’t seen most of my friends in over a week, and the house with its stale activities is getting to me. I went shopping with Amy and Stef the other day which was great and it took my mind off – took my mind off things. I don’t understand this; this constant need to have a distraction, as if my own thoughts will tear me apart if I am alone with them for long enough. I need company, cheap laughter and quick fixes of society, or I’ll suffocate with my own musty thoughts. The issue is that I don’t understand why I should feel like this… I just feel despondent if I am alone too long and depressed if I think for too long. So I stuff my life with superficiality, because there is no substance to anything I possess. I while away the hours with the internet, and books, and films, and music with lyrics that I’ll sing along to, as if I really understand the meaning of any of it. I’ve written confidently before how sure I am that I am/was in love, but now it (whatever it was, perhaps just a pale imitation of what could exist) has faded, I can’t even tell anymore. I just squint at my memory and then give it up, with a wise and hackneyed ‘well, I thought I was in love, but in retrospect’. That’s laughable too, of course, whoever said I had the power of retrospect?

Everything in my life seems slightly sour; everything is rather unsatisfactory. Nothing is perfect, pure, innocent. Every little thing is slightly tainted, everything has an edge. Look at it this way – in every clause of my life where there is something positive, insert a ‘but’ and suddenly it loses it’s perfection. I have loving parents but they don’t love each other; I have talent in perhaps one area of academia (in that I can, unlike most of my illiterate peers, string a coherent sentence together on paper) but have experienced so little of life that there is nothing that I am fully qualified to write about. I’m in love (perhaps) but he doesn’t love me as much as I love him, and probably never did if I’m going to be honest with myself.

With Jack and me – ok, there’s a part of my life that, for a time, was perfection. It just was – perfection, pure and unmarred. For a couple of months – six, even, I lived in fragile happiness where he was concerned. But lately it’s gone. It’s gone, and just typing that: just typing it, admitting it, unleashes the tears from behind my composed eyes. Reading back over conversations we once had, remembering stuff he used to say to me, makes me bitterly happy, and if I concentrate hard enough I can almost convince myself it’s in the present tense, when really it was months ago and the pinnacle has dropped. The tragedy is that I knew it would happen; all along, I could see it coming. I tried not to let it spoil my delight, and it didn’t to a degree. Time I spent with Jack means more to me than most things in the world and I want it back, as if it was a rare commodity: always rationed, always a luxury but now permanently out of stock. And I, the wearied consumer, having to alter my favourite meals so they don’t have that special ingredient…

I want it back. You see, it’s different from saying ‘I wish he loved me’; what I’m saying is ‘I wish he loved me and that I loved him, I wish I wish I wish it was how it was’. Does that make sense – I want it all back, everything, and it goes for my own feelings as well as his.

I wish I wish I wish… I wish I could die. Don’t look shocked, in that Sunday school way – ‘don’t ever wish that’, you say, concerned for my mental health. But I am serious: I wish I could just click my fingers and suddenly I don’t have to think about any of this crap any more. My self-esteem is lower each day, as I struggle through days of nothing and nights of restlessness. I wake up groggy each morning, thinking of Jack because that’s all I’ve got – a romance smothered weeks ago, that’s all I have, and then I force myself to think of something else, but there isn’t anything. There never is anything. Perhaps my life is too empty and maybe I really should ‘get out more’; perhaps I’m a loser and maybe I simply don’t deserve any sympathy, for on the surface everything is there. Even deep down… but deep down, I’m rather different to how I’m perceived. Most people think that I’m hard through and through; tough and funny and utterly thick-skinned. In reality, that’s just how I’d like to be and the truth is that I’m troubled. I feel very self-conscious, since I’m sure you’ll imagine that I’m painting myself to be a misunderstood genius (or at the very least the classic misunderstood teen). Really, I’m not insinuating that – the problem, if there is a problem, for I perhaps am completely over-analysing myself, lies with me, not with the world.

I hate myself for not working hard enough for my exams and hate myself for the disappointment my parents will attempt to quash in a month or two; I hate myself for loving Edd and not being able to forget him, no matter how hard I try; I hate myself for not letting people in, for being so outwardly secure and balanced and my own person when inside I just don’t know who I am, or how to be who I am. Or even, most terrifying of all, if I’m any different from all the people around me who manage to go about their uneventful lives and at least enjoy the ride.

I quite often try and shake myself out of this kind of mood by picking up a book, and I’ve read some decent ones lately. Working my way through the English A Level reading list is proving to be more fulfilling and definitely more enjoyable than expected. So far I’ve read and made notes on four, I think, or maybe five, and I liked them all. My clear favourite is still ‘The Bell Jar’, and Sylvia Plath is my absolute favourite author – I love her poetry as well.

Her writing is how I’d like to write, I think, with fluidity and grace and a lot of insight. There are so many things in life I’d like to do and see and feel, and perhaps this inner frustration and despondency is that my life just isn’t moving fast enough for me; I don’t seem to have experienced very much yet.

“If only I was a woman of thirty dressed in black with a string of pearls” – the line is something like that (not that it’s a Sylvia Plath line; it’s Daphne du Maurier), and in a way I wish I was older and more independent and more how – how I’m seen to be, I suppose.

I am going to make a conscious effort to be normal and to really try… it’s no good, it absolutely is no good. I want Jack, and I want a perfect figure and I want a job and enough money and no spots and tonnes more friends and a mother who doesn’t fuck a guy from her work and a sister that is getting the same education that I got and more brains.
When I said I wanted Jack, perhaps I just meant that I wanted love. Yes, that sort of love, if you’re wondering. It isn’t because I feel I need someone else to complete me or even because I am desperate to experience whatever it was that gave me that tingle between my legs whenever it surfaced in films or the media or books, ever since I was a kid. It’s because, well, what I did have with Edd was special and close and I just want that because when I was with him, when I was talking to him, when I was thinking of him and knowing he was somewhere thinking of me – I felt so perfectly happy. In a way I am afraid that even if I got a boyfriend, the regular way, the formulaic scholastic way, it would never be the same because Jack was something unique and what we had and will probably never regain was extraordinary.

I’ll never forget it; never, as long as I live, and every morning and every evening I bury my head in the pillow and try to imagine that it still exists or could reincarnate itself. When daylight hits my face, I know it doesn’t exist anymore and never will, ever, again, and that’s when I want to die. I wish I didn’t still love him: I’m not as completely crazy as I once was but I am still there and have no idea how to get out of such a ghastly rut. I never could get over guys that I liked: with all the rest I got over them by starting to fancy someone else. But there’s no one: no one else, and in these long boring days I begin to fear that there never will be.


14th July:

I’ve had another bored day, a stagnant day – a day tainted by my raw throat and my regular nose-blowing (translate as ‘I have an awful cold’).

It’s an absolutely awful cold; I have trouble sleeping, my throat is painful and my voice hoarsely muted. Hopefully I’m over the worst of it, since I’ve had it nearly a week now.

I didn’t do much today, except mope around, read a bit, and I went to Tesco. I was in a funny kind of mood in the evening; almost manic, really, just hyper and angry. Being ill doesn’t help – I was at Sarah’s yesterday and I had the most excruciating headache all evening that wouldn’t shift with any amount of paracetamol.

This morning I didn’t wake until past 9 o’clock, which is late for me, and Lydia was just getting back from her violin exam as I finally hauled myself out of bed and down to a rather barren breakfast table.

I was rather depressed in the morning (late morning; just before lunch) because I was reading through the daily diary I kept last year (I’ve now written every single day from the beginning of 2006 to now) and I came across the time when I was just getting close to Jack and then into the long period where I was just blissfully in love with him (which, I suppose, went on for about eight months: I knew I felt it in September and it continued strongly until about April of this year). It’s just lately I have spoken to him a little, and the conversations have been fine, but although I had formerly succeeded in convincing myself that things hadn’t changed a lot, re-reading an old diary told me a different story. We’d talk every night, which I’d forgotten… now we talk once a week or less, even. And it just isn’t the same as how it used to be. I always knew we’d fade out of each others’ lives; I told him so, even in the haze of love I reminded him but he dismissed it. He promised me he wouldn’t let me fade out, but I knew it would happen anyway… perhaps I’m just more of a realist than he. I just wish I could have those eight months over again because they were just about the happiest I’ve had – at least, in these latest years. I had a happy childhood – since I was eleven school got better and family life got worse and worse. It’s just when I had Edd to retreat to, even if it was only on a computer screen or the display on my phone, I had an escape from what was going on at home. (The way I say ‘going on’, it sounds like there were serious incidents of domestic violence or something equally horrific, but of course that isn’t the case).

But then I thought about it a bit longer and I decided that I’d much rather have had the whole Jack experience: it was fun and it was real, and although I knew it wouldn’t last forever I thoroughly enjoyed it. There’ll be other ones like it, I know, and I can but anticipate them. Let’s hope I don’t have to wait another sixteen years for my next Prince Charming. And as for the prospect of life without Jack himself….well, I was looking out of the window at this absolutely glorious sunrise this morning: it was watermelon and plum and tangerine all at once, with this radiant ripple of blueberry in the middle combined with clouds of whipped cream. I looked at this delicious dessert of a sky and I just smiled, spontaneously, I really did. And I thought to myself that while skies like that can still exist, I can still live and love living, and love my life whatever is happening in it. Even if I don’t get the grades I want; even if I never speak to Jack again in my life; even if my parents split for good and my mum goes to live with Roundabout Rog – well, as long as there are skies like that I can be happy. My life may not be 'pure', 'inncocent', 'untainted', but that sky sure as hell is. Don’t pass this off as naïve or indeed simply facetious (I’m sorry if the ‘dessert’ metaphor was a little contrived; I was going to put ‘tangerine’ and then I just made all the colours into fruits and the clouds into crème fraiche… I got rather carried away: many apologies).

You can be happy, you know, whatever happens you can be happy. Whenever I’m sad I’m compelled just to think of that sunrise and suddenly I see the light… it’s always rising. Don’t forget that: it’ll always rise again.