The Beautiful Youth (Part 1)

Chapter 1

"Fitting in was always so much easier when we were younger."

It never used to be like this.

I remember a time, back in primary school, when friends were there for you through thick and thin and the most controversial decision you could ever make was choosing the colour of your crayon.

Then we grew up.

Those four words seem to resonate in my head all the time. Growing up. It's all we ever seemed to want to do as children, yet as soon as we start to do it, we realise it's not all it's cracked up to be, and for me I hated it.

Growing up is one of the worst things that ever happened in my life. Growing up means taking responsibility for your actions, yet it seems almost every single person on the planet forgets about that part.

My parents used to tell me that growing up was some kind of magic change. That my life would be much better, and I'd be capable of so much more, that I’d have freedom and fun and happiness overnight.

But you see, growing up isn't all rainbows and roses.

The friends we adored became strangers. They're not quite enemies, because you don't know them enough anymore to feel resentment towards them. They are merely strangers to you. You share a memory, you know their name and you recognise their face, yet neither of you acknowledge the other one. And it's as much your fault as it is theirs.
The decisions we make became more and more important, and controversial. We were making choices that would affect our whole lives, our future. And yet we made them based on the impulses of the present day.

But the worst thing?

The worst thing was that every single person, no matter who they were, seemed to have something to say about every little detail of everyone else's entire being.
To put it simply, growing up sucks.

I'm at the point in my life when I'm ready to just give up. I've stopped trying because it's just too hard. But I have to, I can't let them win. Imagine the satisfaction on their faces when they see what they've driven me to.

No, I had to fight.

But you see, being a teenager isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's incredibly hard work, and nobody seems to understand this.

We were told as children that our teenage years would be the best. That we’d have so much fun and it’d never be matched again in our lives.

What I don’t know was whether my parents were lying or whether I’m just a lousy teenager.

I imagined a great life where I would be at a different party every night and be really confident and have loads of friends and a fun life. I imagined late night walks through the countryside, and shopping trips to the cities, and travelling all over the country on impromptu trips. I imagined sneaking out at night to see the stars with my friends.
I even imagined a relationship at one point. 

Yet here I am at one in the morning, sat on my computer just like every other night. My life seems to revolve around spending stupid amounts of time in my room, sitting in the dark on the Internet. It's my safe place. It's comforting. For me, it’s home.

And then there's school.

Just those words alone and I can already feel the knot in my throat building up. It's not the school as such that's my problem, it's the people. The stuck up, snobby, opinionated people that live their lives judging people and making snide comments to ensure that they're higher up the social scale than their competition.

I tried to fit in once, and it was the worst thing I ever did. I would sit with them at lunch in the biggest crowd I'd ever seen. And we'd talk about how we all liked the latest pop sensation. In this case Rihanna.

And as the conversation flowed, I realised that every single person on the table hated each other. There was no spark or chemistry that friends should have; they were all there for the social status and nothing more, with each one of them gaining something from the last one's reputation.

It was the most awkward few lunchtimes of my entire life, and I never went back.
You see in primary school nobody really cared. And that’s the beauty of children. They ask questions to find out things they want to know, but they never make a judgement. The people in primary school accepted you for who you were and people got on without any drama or cliques.

Secondary school is completely different.

Everyone is in their own little groups. Don't deny it, because even you will fit into one. And the chances are you're probably just like me. You'll have your own friendship group, but it's not enough.

Sure you love them all to the earth and back, and you'd give an arm and a leg for each and every one of them, but there's probably a maximum of only four or five people. For me, I had four friends. Sure, I had other people I got on with, but they were more acquaintances than friends.

And each and every lunchtime, me and my friends would sit under the stairs and talk about how much we hated everyone else. It seemed comforting to know that they were just like me, but the constant bitching made me feel as though I was back on that table with them lot.

I’d tried to escape them, yet here I was in a similar situation.

The worst thing about my friendship group though, was their apparent lack of care for me.
One day I was sitting there with my friends, as we always did, and they were discussing a film that I hadn't seen but they all had. I distinctly remember the scene;
'it was so good like literally I don't understand why people haven't seen it!’
'Why wouldn't you even go and see it, it was well worth the money!'
‘especially when Hugh Jackman went running through that building!'
'Oh yeah!'
'But guys, do you remember that stupid girl who dropped her popcorn everywhere?'
‘or that man that fell over whilst walking up the stairs!? We all thought that was the funniest thing ever!'

As I sat there in silence, I realised that even my friends were shutting me out. I was the insignificant friend, the one that everyone in the group secretly disliked and only tolerated because they'd strung me on for so long. They'd all gone to the cinemas together, and hadn't even bothered to invite me.

That was it; I didn't even fit in with my friendship group anymore, let alone school. Fitting in was always so much easier when we were younger. Nobody cared about who your friends were, or what music you listened to, or what clothes you wore. Now, they were the deciding factors about where you stood in the school's hierarchy.

And I was right at the bottom; alongside the Asperger's kid and the fat one whose breathe smelt.

This is why I spent pretty much my entire life on the Internet, in my room, away from any contact with people. People in the real world would hurt you and judge you. The Internet is merely a creation that people like me have adapted to make us feel better.

Call me melodramatic, I honestly couldn't care. That's a lie. Of course I care, I always care. Each time I would get cut down by one of the kids at school, a little part of me felt like it had died. It was as if with each word, a part of my soul went missing.

I would build a wall up each morning to try and protect myself, and by the time I'd left the building at three o'clock, it had been demolished and ground down into rubble until there was no trace of a wall ever being there.

They didn't like me, I could deal with that. They loathed me; I could kind of deal with that. But the fact they went out of their way to upset me and put me down. I couldn't deal with that.

And every day it was something different. It was as if they had a never-ending pot of insults and comments, all with my name in them. 'Your voice is too squeaky' or 'Your hair looks extra greasy and ugly today' or 'Why do you wear glasses, we don't want you to look at us with your four eyes' or 'the spots on your face make you look like a pepperoni pizza'. That last one was one of my personal favourites, and I remember that since Ben Richardson had said it to me in year seven.

The first few don't get to you. You think that there will be an end point, and so you get through it with the knowledge that there's a light at the end of the tunnel. But when it's day after day after day with no sign of stopping, it starts to get you down.

Even my friends would start doing it with little sly digs here and there. 'Why would you wear those clothes, they don't even match' and 'You dress like such a tramp' and 'just shut up nobody cares' and 'I wouldn't do that to any of you, well, except one person'

"Friends".

That's what they called themselves. That was their job within the school, to be friends with me. But that was all it felt like now, like it was a job for them. As if they were only friends with me because the rigid social structure told them they had to be.
 
The worst thing was, I still loved them. Despite all their faults and insults and constant put downs, a massive part of my heart still held them dear.

Because that's what friends do, we accept those we love despite the little faults that they have. We acknowledge these faults, and turn them into quirks. Because a quirk is something we can learn to love and appreciate; a fault we can only hate.
Yet my friends didn't seem to do that.

I guess I've painted a pretty negative picture about society, and that's not really fair. I'm a part of society, we all are. This means I am as much to blame as the next person.

But society, too, can be beautiful.

So, there's a little about my life. And I've been talking about myself without actually giving you anything interesting to read. 

So here, have a read into the life that I live.

                                                                                                                       

Chapter 2

"Relationships are easy; it's the confidence that's hard to master"

It's 6.30 in the morning and already my alarm has been snoozed twice. Me and mornings never have, and probably never will, be friends.

I am most definitely not a morning person.

Mornings are just too early and too dark and too cold. And they bring such an awful feeling of dread and anxiety with them. Its mornings that remind you that the day ahead is about to start and you better get ready for it.

The sunrise is nice, sure. It creates a sense of warmth and belonging amongst everyone. Even the kids at school appreciate the magic of the sunrise. It reminds you that you’re still alive.

But I'd rather stay in bed if I’m perfectly honest.

But reluctantly I'll roll out of bed groggily eyed and force myself to get ready for the day ahead - eventually.

When I finally decide that it's about time I should actually roll out of bed, around about 7, I have to face up to the fact I'm about to have to see all of those people.

Again.

Their faces and voices began swirling around my head, each one with more venom than the last. I could hear their taunts and jests, poking fun at me and my insecurities. One day, I knew I was just going to crack like an egg.

Not today though. Today was a fighting day. I was ready for whatever obstacles these devil spawn were going to throw at me. 

I took a glance at myself in the mirror, and what do I see? A nose that is far too big for my face. Skin that's covered in acne and spots. Teeth that are crooked and slightly yellow. Eyes that are dull and cloudy. Hair that's straw-like and ugly. A stomach that isn’t flat. Legs that are chunky and uneven.

I see me.

I've got to stop doing this to myself, but the truth is once you start with this process it's a tough one to stop, and I do this pretty much every day.

As I glanced down, ashamed of my reflection, I noticed a little note that I'd left for myself, just below the mirror. The blue felt tip still as vibrant as they day I had written it all those months ago.

smile to yourself, you're beautiful the way you are. remember what mum says to you and smile. things could be worse, at least you're alive.

A smile spread across my face.

It's true, at least I was alive. I'd woken up this morning, which is more than 150, 000 people had done. That thought alone was enough to make me appreciate what I had.
And then I thought to what my mum says to me every day. 'You are beautiful, to me anyway. Sure your dream person might not see it, or the kids at school. But all it takes is one special person to see the beauty in you and you can know that you are beautiful'.
My mum was my world, you see. She's the one that had been there for me my entire life.
I honestly felt as though I could tell her anything, and she’d smile and reply in her own little way.

Whilst I was younger my dad was always working until late or working away, and so I'd never really seem him that much. I think this is why me and my mum were so close. I'd latched onto her as both a mother and a father figure.

Sheila Levton, the only person in the whole entire world who understood me and still loved me for who I was, despite everything that was wrong with me.

My mother is, and probably always will be; my best friend, my guardian, my protector, my inspiration, my advice giver, my guidance counsellor, my mentor and my mother all rolled into one bundle of hugs, biscuits, acceptance and affection.

After I'd spent what felt like an eternity in the shower, mulling things over in my head as always, I began to get dressed. My school uniform was both as uncomfortable as it was unstylish.

The trousers were unflattering and flared at the bottom. My shirt collar was bent and folded over. My jumper was so thin, almost to the point where it served no purpose at all. My blazer was old and tatty, with bits of cotton coming off left, right and centre.

Yet I had my tie.

A golden relic shining through the darkness. My tie, bright yellow in colour, was a reminder to everyone in the school that I'd made house captain.

A trophy to show off my achievement to the world around me, and remind them of the feat I’d managed to do.

Nobody could believe it, least of all me. I'd gone for a prefect role, doubting I'd even get that, yet my head of house seemed adamant at giving me the male house captain role. It was such an honour.

Of course the other prefects in my house weren't so pleased, and I had to get Anna-Marie, my fellow house captain, to tell them what to do. They just wouldn't listen to me.

It was then I caught a whiff of my mother's cooking. It filled my nostrils with pleasure and warmth, and my whole body began to ooze with its delectable scent. Food, or as I liked to call it, friend number three, was ready.

When I told my mum what I called food, she laughed, almost uncontrollably with a softness that told me she understood. 'So who are one and two then?'

'Number 2 is the Internet. He's the friend that can make me laugh when I'm down, watch movies with me and let me rant to them. He understands me more than most people, and we stay up and chat until the early hours of the morning. We even watched some Doctor Who together last night'
'And number 1?'
I gave her a smile that told her just what she wanted to know.
'Come here' she said, opening her arms up.

There is nothing more comforting, relaxing and warming than a mothers hug. It feels as though every problem you have in the world just fades for those few seconds that this embrace lasts. It's like you're finally in a safe place where nothing can harm you and nobody else can get you. A place where nothing else matters other than the bond you share with you mum, which for me was the strongest bond on the planet.

'Now, you need to set off for school before you make yourself late... again'

She was in mother mode again, showing a caring attitude whilst also a slight threatening air that told me I better not be late again. I smiled as I scrambled for my coat and stepped out of the door.

And so, I began the journey to my school; the hell-hole of judgments and insults and people I hated.

The second I left the house I longed to be back inside, safe and away from the world. The world was a scary, unpredictable place and something about it unnerved me and made me feel uneasy.

I felt like Bilbo Baggins embarking on an epic quest, except my end destination was a prison and I longed for the journey to last for as long as possible.

As I walked along the streets and up the bank, I passed a few people. The first was a dog walker. A friendly looking woman with greying hair and a kind face. She greeted me with a rather cheery 'Good morning' to which I replied with the same two words, yet something in my voice betrayed the falseness behind my words.

Mornings should never be described as good, they were mediocre at best.

The second was a business-type man, dressed in a rather impressive suit and his hair slicked back, each strand perfectly in place. He seemed to ignore my existence completely, not even moving over to avoid a puddle in front of him. The water splashed onto his immaculately shined shoes, and still he didn't react, as if his mind was concentrated on the important thing in the world.

And then, as if out of nowhere, he appeared.

Dark curly hair that flowed freely yet was styled at the same time. A jaw line that was so chiselled it would probably cut through glass, was matched with the lightest dusting of facial hair. And his eyes; oh wow! A dark, emerald green that held my attention for what felt like forever. He was tall, dark, handsome, chiselled, cute, manly, boyish and well groomed all in one.

He was my idea of perfect, and I longed to smile at him, I did. All I had to do was smile at him and that would be it.

But what if he thought I was strange? What if he didn't like me? What if he knew the kids at school and shared their opinions?

What if I smile and he sees my teeth and notices all my spots and that my eyes don't gleam?

These thoughts and more circled around in my head, dancing to and fro, and shouting over each other to be heard. And so I put my head down and walked on, not even looking at him anymore.

You see, relationships are easy; it's the confidence that's hard to master. The confidence to actually let someone else in. The confidence to lose those inhabitations and let yourself be free The confidence to face up to rejection.

The confidence that I simply did not have.

I wanted a relationship so bad. I'd been single for as long as I could remember, and all I wanted was to feel wanted by someone other than my family. I wanted to feel as though someone actually thought about me positively and I wanted them to miss me. 

But who was I kidding?

I couldn't even muster up a smile to a stranger on the street. I wasn't ready for a relationship. I wasn't even ready for my day ahead, let alone a relationship.

The rest of the walk to school was pretty uneventful. Once the earphones go in and my current playlist of Marina and the Diamonds, Jake Bugg and Mumford and Sons began to play, the world around me became irrelevant, fading away as the melodies poured into my brain.

They were my escape whilst I soldiered on throughout the day. And this playlist was especially crafted late one night to build myself up for the day, using songs that were a mix of all my emotions and a varying tempo.

I was building an emotional set of standards within my head, so I know what it felt I've to feel normal.

Approaching the school I felt my stomach knot and churn, a feeling I imagined matched those who were on death row over in America. It was not one I enjoyed, and reminded me that my last few gasps of freedom were about to happen.

'Oh look, who it is! The walking embarrassment'

And there it was.

I'd been at school less than a minute and already the taunting and mockery had begun. I looked around and noticed Mr Craigson stood there, silently observing. He caught my eye contact and looked away instantly, saying not a single word to the boys. I longed to scream at him, wanting him to say something to them. But he never did.

None of them ever did, because that meant acknowledging I existed.

My stomach dropped as I stepped through the entrance. I guess today would be exactly the same as all the others.

                                                                                                                       

Chapter 3

"Change is inevitable, yet it hurts when someone you like changes for the worse."

That week had been pretty boring, with nothing really happening.

One of the popular kids had laughed at me during biology because I felt a little sick during a class dissection. My friends had been to the cinemas together, again no invite was sent my way. During PE, my teacher made fun of the way I swung the cricket bat and the class found this far funnier than I did.

Overall, it was a fairly average week.

And now, it was round to Saturday. I enjoyed weekends because it meant I could stay away from the kids at school for two days and allow me to catch up on reading or blogging or tweeting, depending on how I felt.

Weekends were life’s way of telling me that I actually had something to look forward. It's true, as soon as I woke upon a Monday morning, I couldn't wait for the next weekend to arrive.

Most people my age looked forward to the weekend because it meant parties and drinking and fun. For me, it meant peace and freedom. Finally, I was safe for a short period of time.

Once, I'd told my mum why I looked forward to the weekend so much and she smiled. Her blue eyes glistened with a feeling of understanding and care. It was as if she had been through the same and could empathise with what I was going through.

I woke up, feeling refreshed after a nice sleep in that felt like heaven. That was another thing I loved about weekends. I got to spend more time in bed, or with friend number four.
The house was quiet and so I shoved on my dressing gown and headed down the stairs. I tried to be as quiet as possible, but the stairs creaked and groaned with every step I took. If they weren't awake before, they sure enough would be now.

Opening the kitchen door, I looked at the clock; 11. That's strange, mum and dad never sleep in this late. I shrugged it off and opened the blind, a morning ritual which had been left for me to do ever since I was a youngster. I loved how this little tradition had stuck for so long.

It was then that I spied a little note on the table:
Me and your father have just nipped out for a few things, we shouldn't be too long. Make sure your brother isn't in bed too long. 
See you soon,
Mum x
Without realising it, a smile spread across my face.

Mum had actually thought about me when she wrote the note, and at least I knew they were safe.

I continued with my ritual of opening the blinds downstairs before turning on the news for background music. I made myself a cup of tea, took a seat on the sofa and turned the news up.

There is nothing quite like a nice cuppa and the news. It's quintessentially British.
The stories were always the same kind of thing, yet there was something surprisingly satisfying and interesting to see how different people were living their lives.

Despite the fact the news was often glum and depressing; it created a sense of unity amongst the viewers. For me, it felt as though the presenter was speaking directly to me.
It's a strange experience, to be aware of the viewing audience, yet feeling as though it’s personalised just for you at the same time.

I turned on my laptop and headed straight to my twitter, as my Saturdays so often started. I kind of felt accepted on there, it was like a safe haven from the people at my school.

And there I saw the faint blue mark that told me I had a direct message. Three in fact, and how exciting I thought this was!

My excitement soon changed. The gist of the three messages were all pretty similar. All three were derogatory and told me that people hated me.

It seemed all the more painful to be told of the fact that you were hated.

And then I noticed who they were off. Two of them were from insignificant people in my school, but the third was somebody who I used to be so close to.

The boy was once my best friend but the summer holidays changed him. The summer holidays change everybody, some for the better but mostly for the worst. Change is inevitable, yet it hurts when someone you like changes for the worse.

Me and him had once been the best of friends, yet one summer he just stopped talking to me. We used to spend hours talking to each other, sometimes staying up until three or four in the morning, even on a school night. We’d taken several trips out and about, and I had many fond memories of our days out to Whitby, Newcastle, Richmond, even as far as Leeds and Sheffield!

Yet after that summer, he'd ignore every message that I'd sent to him. And that was when I realised, he'd began hanging out with 'them'. He was one of 'them'

Popularity had obviously gotten the best of him and he'd gone and spoke to 'them' to try and boost his social status. They'd probably told him twisted tales and stories about how I'm such a freak and a horrible person and his desire of popularity would mean he'd believe them.

Some people will trade it all to feel like they belong.

I didn't blame him. I know exactly how it feels to want to be popular or to achieve a sense of belonging. Even though it was two years ago that he'd changed, it still hurt to see his name sat there staring at me.

It was looking right at me, glaring into my eyes. Taunting me. Mocking me. Hating me.
It all got a little too much and I felt a trickle of water slither down my cheek. I had to fight it. As soon as the water works started they wouldn't stop. 'Crying is a sign of weakness' is what my dad would say to me. 

Fight the tears, come on fight them.

And so, only one lone tear had escaped. But there was still a sense of emptiness and hollowness inside of me. And then it illuminated again.

The blue had become cynical and emotionless. Yet again, the kids from school would ruin something for me, and this time it would be Twitter – one of the few places I was actually accepted and respected.

I clicked it and there he was again, with another message saying the same. And then again. And again.

If only I could reply. I'd bite back so hard that he wouldn't know what hit him. But I couldn't, because I'd be labelled as the bad guy, and the kids at school would have even more ammunition against me. 'I'm better than them' I told myself.

But the emptiness began to grow. It was like it was eating me from the inside. Engulfing my entire being as it spread and wound its way through my veins. It filled me like a liquid, and I felt so hollow.

It was all too much, and the tears began to flow down my cheeks.

Crying is a strange experience, because it doesn't happen the way you expect it.
When something is truly upsetting, you don't violently sob like the movies depict. Rather, you sit there blankly in silence, staring at something until the tears blur your vision and you feel the warmth trickle down your face. You can feel each individual bead of water from its welling within the eye as it rolls down your cheek slowly, reminding you of the pain as it goes down and attempts to comfort you. It's as if your body is trying to reassure you by giving you some feeling of warmth within a cold situation.

Yet it never does.

The crystals of water are merely there as a reminder that something got too much and you overflowed.Tears are just an overflowing of emotion that your body can no longer handle.

And as I sat there blankly I felt two arms wrap themselves around me. I blinked, unaware as to what was happening. I still felt emptiness yet a sense of comfort at the same time.
It took me a few moments to realise that whilst I'd been in that emotional bubble my parents had returned home and now my mother was holding me in her arms.

Yet I didn't move. It's not that I didn't want to, I just couldn't. I felt so drained and exhausted that I couldn't muster the strength to return the hug. I just sat there, allowing my mother's grip to attempt to comfort me and take me to that safe place I knew and loved.

There was something in those arms that told me that me everything was going to be okay, and that nothing mattered anymore and that he was just insignificant to me.
As we sat down to dinner, a selection of varying curries made by my father, I told my family everything. From the constant torment and taunts I got in school, to the insignificance of me in my friendship group, to the messages.

I didn't miss a single detail out.

After each little story I would look my mum, my dad and my brother all in the eye, to see their reaction. My mum's eyes were sympathetic and understanding, my dad's eyes showed an anger and rage I'd never seen before, and my brother's eyes? His eyes were empty and emotionless, as if they'd been glassed over. Despite his continuing headshakes and occasional 'yes' calls throughout the conversation, he couldn't care less.

That hurt.

And when I had finished telling my story, my dad looked at me right in the eye. 'Just remember, you go to school with these people. Once you leave here for university or a job you'll probably never see them again. You'll find some friends that will like you, and you'll fit in. They're insignificant, just a blip'

There it was, what I'd longed to hear for a long time. The advice of my father rang in my ears for two reasons: the first was that it showed he cared. All his life he'd always been away and missing, but now I knew that deep down he actually did care. The second was his wording. "Just a blip". That one phrase stuck with me because it was true. In a couple of years’ time these people would be nothing to me, so why did I care?

I cared because they meant something now. No matter how hard we try to deny it, every human being longs to be liked. It's human nature to want to feel a sense of belonging. And that's exactly what I wanted.

That's all I wanted in my life, someone to want me.

                                                                                                                       

Chapter 4

"Sometimes, it’s easier to accept insults than compliments because we believe them more"

English Literature class was really dragging and I longed to leave the place. It was five to three, which meant I only had to endure this torture for another five minutes before I was free for the evening.

Free from all of these people.

My English teacher was definitely my favourite teacher in the place. She was only a short woman, with pale, freckled skin, dark ginger hair and a figure that would have been better suited to a dancer or a flight attendant. She even dressed as though she was working on an aeroplane. Yet despite her size she filled the room with her personality.
I admired her. She was always happy and bubbly, and was the only teacher to actually acknowledge my existence.

She'd speak to me and ask me about my day, and it was nice to actually nice to have someone pay me some attention for once. It was probably why I was good at English, because she was the only teacher to put any effort in to actually teach me.
And her love for English was second to none.

I'd only had her for a few months and already I felt as though I could speak to her about most things.

Our conversations had started with books. You see, reading meant I could escape the world and go to a place that was happy and exciting and fun. And reading was a universal language. You could go up to anybody on the street and ask them a simple question like “What’s your favourite book?” and there’s a conversation right there. Of course I’d never do that, it was just a possibility.

The real reason I liked books so much was because there was always a happy ending. It may not be obvious, but for at least one character or for the reader, the ending is a happy one. It gave me hope.

'Right class, I want your essays on Alan Bennett handed in this time next week. You’re all dismissed.' Before I could leave, she'd sauntered over to my desk and took a seat next to me. 'We need a word' I nodded, and looked into her eyes. They showed genuine concern for something.

She waited until the rest of the class had left before turning to me and looking at me dead in the eye. 'What is it? What's wrong with you? You seem to have lost that spark you had last half term'
'It’s nothing miss'
'Oh really?'
'Really'
'You know I can't help you if you don't tell me. I've been your teacher for almost three months now, I can tell something's up. So what is it?'
'It’s the other kids miss. They taunt me. They insult me. They mock me. They...' my voice became a whisper, 'they hurt me with their constant words miss.'

She glanced at my wrists. I knew exactly what she was looking for, and she wouldn't find it. The words hurt me enough; I couldn't cope with that pain as well.

'And what exactly do they say?'
'It’s something different every day. You see, I'm not like them. I'm not into the same music or have the same interests or enjoy parties or anything. I'm not confident like them.'
'But you're content, and that's more important than anything'

It took me a few moments to realise what she'd said was true. I was content.  I had my own little quirky ways of dealing with things, and I had my mum. I wasn't necessarily happy with my life and situation, but I was content with it.

'Thanks miss!'
'That’s not all. I want you to speak more in class. Show them that there's more to you than what they think. You have the best literary mind I've seen in a long time, and I want them to know that. I want them to know the brilliance that I’ve seen. I want them to know the you that I know. Is that okay?'
Instinctively, I answered with 'Yes' and left the room.

I had to try and be more confident in the class. Not because I wanted to better myself, but because I didn't want to let her down. She'd gone out of her way to help me, and now I had to do this to repay her. She believed in me. It was only fair.

And as I was walking home that evening I realised something. My mum had glanced at my wrists this morning as well. She must have phoned the school to ask them to check to see if I was okay. I wasn't quite sure how I felt. Was I happy that my mum actually cared about me enough to ask school to check? Or was I annoyed that maybe my English teacher didn't care about me as much as I thought she did.

The former seemed the more likely feeling.

The closer I got to my house, the safer I began to feel. The torment of the day was almost over and I could step through the door and feel like all my worries were dulled a little for another day.

But this walk was a little different.

I noticed an elderly gentleman struggling with his little dog, a Yorkshire terrier that resembled a rat more than a dog. 'Scuse me, you couldn't help out an old man could you?' He was addressing me. I frantically looked around, hoping that there was the smallest chance that he was speaking to someone else.

Just me.

I gulped nervously. He'd asked me first, just breathe. It's a harmless old man, he's fine, and he seems nice. You can do this. 'What can... what can I help you with?' My voice trembled and shuck with nervousness. 'You couldn't hold my dog for a minute while I do my laces could you?' Without thinking I walked over and grabbed the dog lead, looking at the dog and keeping my eye contact on it. The man fastened his laces without a problem and then looked into my eyes.

'Can I repay you?'
'No, no. no money, please'
'You make me laugh. I'm not offering money. Here, hand me your palm. I'm a palm reader.'

Before I could say anything he'd grabbed my spare hand and began to examine it. 'Ah, I see great wisdom in you. Stacks of it in fact, yet it goes to waste. You're a quiet one, correct?'  I went to answer, but he continued to speak before I had a chance. 'Never mind. You have a short life line, so be careful. Still got a few years left like. Plenty in fact. Oh. Hang on.'

Why was he stopping? What had he seen? I began to panic, hoping he hadn't found anything that spelt imminent doom.

'Listen to my words very carefully. Don't let them get to you. It's not worth it. You're a person at the end of the day a person that's full of knowledge and creativity, and by the looks of it a lot of the stuff. Take the compliments, because sometimes, it’s easier to accept insults than compliments because we believe them more. But you still need to accept these compliments!'

I stood there in silence, astounded by this man. He'd never met me before, yet here he was giving me life advice and predicting my fate. And before anything else could be said, he took his dog and went on his way. I must have stood there for a good five minutes before I moved on, my mind still amazed by how incredible this man had been. The advice resonated in my mind, as I thought about the truth behind the situation.

I did believe all the insults, because I thought they were the truth. I thought that what these kids were saying to me was the truth  I sighed to myself a little as I realised something. I shouldn't believe them. I was better than them. They were putting me down, and I needed to rise above it.

And as I smiled a little to myself, I began to walk home. Just a chance encounter with one gentleman had changed my whole mind-set, and I'd never been so thankful for anything.

                                                                                                                       

Chapter 5

"The little parts of our character are what make us standout"

So who exactly were my friends then?

That was a question I found myself asking more and more. I took a seat at my desk and pulled out a notepad. I pulled five sheets of paper out of the pad and picked up a pen. Slowly and carefully, I wrote each of my friend's names at the top of each sheet.

Jacob. Maria. Joe. Anna-Marie. Kathryn.

And I began to write a little biography about each of them, including little details about what I liked about them and the little quirks of their characters. ‘Quirks’ was the key word. They weren’t faults, or flaws, or imperfections. They were quirks. Because without these little features, my friends would be completely different people.

Jacob,

My best friend since year seven, and the one person I'd trust with my life. Small in height but big in heart, you never fail to cheer me up when I'm down and make me smile after just a second of being with you.  There are so many memories to write here that all I'll say is one simple word... bank. It's amazing how much we've been through, and I wouldn't change a thing about our times together.

I love how your laugh lasts longer than the joke and the way your little quiff gets taller and taller each day. The way you strut when you walk, and the little videos you make about the birds in your garden or the fox on the hill….

And as I was writing, I realised why I was doing it. I wasn't doing it for my benefit; I was writing it to give specifically to them. It was as though I felt I had to justify my friendship to them, to make up for being such a bad friend. Sure, I loved my friends and deep down I knew they loved me too; it's just sometimes I feel as though I wasn't quite the friend they deserved. I was the quiet one. The one that kind of just… Existed.

I was just there on a daily basis, occasionally chiming in to the conversation with something insignificant and unwanted. And then I'd go back to being silent again.They deserved better than me, and I couldn’t live up to what they deserved. I was me, the quiet, shy individual who never had much input in anything.

Maria,

My walking friend and the only person who can make me smile early in the morning when we actually walk up together. Sure we've had ups and downs and we fall out more times than I could count, but that's why our friendship is so special.  We're like brother and sister, always falling out and making up literally two minutes later. I just guess that's how our friendship is, and I genuinely wouldn't change anything about it.

I love how sarcastic we both are, and that we basically use this to laugh at everyone else. And I love how protective you get over the many boy bands you fangirl over…

A warm sensation began to fill my insides up. It was unbelievable how happy this task was making me feel, and I began to realise something. The little parts of our character are what make us standout. It wasn't the obvious aspects of our personalities, but rather the small things.

The way our nose scrunches when we laugh. The way our arms swing whilst we walk. The way our mouth curls during a smile.The way we laugh after a joke. The way we grasp a pen when writing something heartfelt and important. Even the way we sit at a table.
Each and every little detail is different on each and every person, and it can tell us a lot about the person.

I continued writing until I had filled every page, and I stuck them to my wall. They reminded me how much I treasured my friends, and how much they meant to me. And that was when it hit me.

The more I thought about my friends, the more I realised what a lousy friend I was.
I never texted them or phoned them. I hardly saw them outside of school. I barely even spoke to them.

I always thought I was the insignificant one that they didn't really like, but it was completely wrong. I wasn't the insignificant one by their choice, it was by my actions that I'd become the insignificant one.I wasn’t doing enough to fight for them. All I did was sit there, wallowing in self-pity and whilst they were trying to cheer me up and move on, I was stuck in that rut, bringing them down with my silence and awkwardness.

It was my fault. It was always my fault.

Blame is a funny thing. You can blame anyone for anything, but then you'd be to blame for making them feel guilty. Blame always somehow got turned back on to you, so I'd just accepted to blame myself for everything.

It was easier that way, and chances are I was to blame for something.

As I sat and pinned the last of the pages to my wall, I looked down at the empty sheet of paper. Its lines were so perfectly aligned and ordered. At least there was some form of order in my life. But the emptiness of the paper was making me uncomfortable, and the more I looked at it the more I longed to fill the page with something.

But what? What could I possibly fill another page with?

And then it hit me.

Me.

I hadn't written a page about me, and so that became my feat. I had to fill the page with things about me. The catch was, they had to be positive. I remembered seeing a boy on Instagram doing a confidence challenge, and one of his tasks was to fill an A4 sheet with positives.

Well, now it was my turn.

I picked up the pen, preparing myself. I felt the cogs in my brain begin to tick over. This was going to be harder than I thought. But I had to come up with something. Sure it’d be hard, but imagine the joy and self-esteem boost I’d get from doing this.

My determination to fight.

That was the first thing to come to me, and it was my favourite thing about me. My stubbornness came in handy with some things, and it fuelled my determination.
My determination to fight and stay strong. My determination to not lose to those insufferable bullies. My determination to stay alive.

I was alive.

That was another thing. I'd made it so far, and that was an accomplishment in itself.
You can never appreciate how bad something is until you've been pushed right to the very edge. To the edge where you honestly ask yourself if it’s worth it? Where you question your very existence and place within the world.

And I'd been there. I'd been there twice.

Yet here I was, sitting at the desk writing these things out, and I was alive. I'd made it, and that was a huge positive for me because there was times where I honestly though I wouldn't. It was a difficult task, sure. But slowly, idea after idea came to my head and eventually I had managed to fill a full sheet with positives about me.

I'd done it.

I had managed to find enough positive, good things about me to fill a full sheet of paper. And that in itself was an achievement. Proudly, I placed my sheet directly in the centre of the papers I'd written for my friends. For the first time in so long, I was in the centre.
I was the focus of the attention. I was the centre of it, and the most important piece of paper on that wall was that sheet.

It was hard, but I had done it. And as my eyes grew heavy I knew it was time for me to sleep. Tomorrow was a new day, and who knew what was waiting for me as the sun rose and the calendar moved on.