I am displaced.

When I was fourteen, I was older than I am now. I was someone who had done too much and hurt inside. I had learnt life lessons too quickly and I wasn't ready for that knowledge. Eventually, I buried it deep inside myself until I was ready to reclaim it and acknowledge who I am.

It was a strange year for me when I discovered things I was too young to properly comprehend. Love was the main thing but there were others. Life. Consciousness. Friendship. Acceptance. Innocence. Time.

I managed to distance myself from everyone who truly loved me. The people who could hold my hand forever and be comfortable in the warmth of us. Not the ones who were on fire and itching to keep moving and who burned me in their haste toward better things. But that's not fair. I was in a hurry, too.

I fell in love that year. I spent until now deciding whether that was true, and if it was, if I could deal with what that meant. I'm still not okay with the way I treated her or myself. We could only have existed as what we were, who we were, in that time. Our attempts since then to be around each other have always failed, probably because pain is the one emotion that never eases. It only gets submerged from time to time; still in tact, but sunk beneath the surface. When you're afraid of who you are, and what you've done, moving on feels impossible.

Which is why I retreated. I lost the friends I worked so hard to accrue. Or the friend, really. I became reliable, simple, pure. I ignored adolescence and focussed on being a unique blend of child and adult; at this I failed, miserably.

Having a breakdown at age fifteen is not great, but neither am I.

The entirety of "I" is a pretty big concept for a little girl. And I was very little, really. Being drawn to people who are bad for you, or who you're taught are bad for you, is the key to breaking your own heart. I did that so many times that my head gave way before my heart could. When my mind came to terms with how to deal with my self destructive behaviour, I was able to decide how to deal with the emotions that went with it.

My solution was to be boring. As boring as possible. Part of that was this; writing about these things like they're not real and I'm just a teenager prone to discussing their life online in a highly stylised way.

Some of my best friends, the ones who've known me since then, wouldn't believe the person that I was- or the things that I did- when I told them. Every now and then I feel my palms sweating a little and I know that it wasn't a dream and for a while that was the girl I was. But for the most part, I'm working to make that chunk of the past smaller, day by day. Because from a distance, even the whole world looks small; even my whole world at age fourteen. And I can see myself waving goodbye.

Why was I the last to know?

Friday night was interesting. I was determined not to write about it because my mother considered me horrible and judgemental but, hey, I've always been a 70-year-old in a teenager's body in terms of grumpiness and whatnot; why end such a marvellous tradition?

A family friend who is exactly one day older than me is leaving the country to go work in the ski fields of Canada so he was having a goodbye celebration at his house. Our mothers have been close friends since they were in their twenties so we've always sort of had that "go play together... seriously, I don't care if there is nothing to say- make it work!" thing going on. Sam is a lovely guy so that makes things easier.

What makes things a wee bit awkward in the relationship between our families is the difference in wealth. See, his parents each make a stackload of money while mine have stuck to their lower-middle class roots. It means that outings and stuff are always awkward because they want to pay for us to experience luxury and my family are just not okay with mooching off others. And it means that while I was always sent to public schools by a staunchly left-wing mother, Sam and his little brother, Oscar, went to one of the most expensive private schools in the city.

This leads me to Friday night. At his farewell party, Sam was hanging with all of his school friends. I try as hard as I can not to judge people based on their background or where they went to school. And, who knows, these kids might have been exactly the same no matter where they'd been sent to school. But I doubt it. All they could talk about was alcohol, kissing girls (and boys, interestingly enough), schoolies, alcohol, marijuana, schoolies, alcohol... the list goes on, in a similar fashion. Sam's mother, Therese, informed us that we should consider ourselves lucky that at 6 in the evening, the boys were only drinking copious amounts of beer and not also getting stoned as was their normal habit. Therese was determined that I go "talk with the young people" but, unfortunately, I have very limited experience where schoolies, alcohol and marijuana are involved. Kissing girls on the other hand... I kid, I kid.

I sat there for an hour but try as I might, I could not either find anything I could contribute to the conversation or a way to look interested. I found myself staring at the "intellectual" of the group who one girl complained "used too many big words" (I think he put "sarcastic" in a sentence at some point) and being amused at his Julius Caesar haircut and tortoise shell glasses. Who says money can't buy class?

That last sentence pretty much sums up everything I thought about the entire group until I was able to leave, around three hours later, after having one semi-decent conversation with a newcomer (thus a sober participant in the party, at least at first) about his geographical origins; he was from Europe so I picked his brain about it... because I could/had to in order to keep myself awake.

I know this all comes off as incredibly conceited and judgemental but I can't help but wonder about two things;

a) what happened to me to make me despise people with money, especially teenagers, so much that I couldn't bring myself to try and communicate with them rather than ridicule them in my blog

b) why these kids are destined to have great lives with lots of success and a feeling that they somehow earnt it despite the fact they'll essentially be buying their way into a distinguished University course and thus to the top of the socio-economic order. At least I can already guess what substances these eventual doctors and solicitors will be spending their "hard earned" cash on at the end of the day.




I'ma go hate myself some more now. Thanks for reading.

To conquer others is to have power. To conquer yourself...

I could spend less time criticising others and more time improving myself but what fun would that be?

I was so angry when I read a girl's comment on Facebook comparing Kristen Stewart's acting performance in Twilight to the way someone with Down Syndrome behaves. So it's not enough that anti-semitism and homophobia are common inspirations for insults, now we have to bring in people born with debilitating intellectual and physical attributes? Someone pointed out to me recently that I used the word "lame" on this blog and for that I am truly sorry. If it could ever upset someone the way that one sentence written on a website for the entire world to see upset me then ... well, I don't even know how it would make me feel. I can't fathom the kind of pain this abuse of language inflicts on others.

And I can't continue to smile and nod and go against my nature simply because I think it will help my life and make things easier for me. The honour in that is non-existent. Recently I just stood by and listened to a woman at work talk about how homeless people don't try hard enough and I hated myself for doing so. Like all of the other people who were a part of that discussion I ignored her statement; I just went on talking and acted as though I'd accepted what she said as though there was nothing wrong with her viewpoint. I don't normally assume the "I'm right, you're wrong" perspective but in situations like this I don't think a generalisation like that woman's has any real validity. I should have opposed her but selfishness and a distorted idea of self-preservation had me holding my tongue.

I don't understand how comparing someone to a person with Down's Syndrome is funny. I also don't understand how it is an insult. I mean, my nephew is just one of the many incredible people who has this condition and, frankly, anyone being placed in the same category has no right to feel slighted. Similarly, to say making a home for yourself on the streets every day and every night is easier than living with the security and comfort of having a house and all the security that goes with it is beyond forgivable.

My anger does not make me an ideal candidate for discussing this, only a very willing one. I'm afraid of the words I will use if I end up confronting people about the way they talk and the people it affects. I have to hope that I can keep my composure long enough to articulate my viewpoint without giving in and being aggressive and, above all, offensive; the same crime I have charged them with.

As I said before, I am far from innocent. Perhaps my anger would have been better off directed at myself. But I did what I always do which is work through my emotions through writing about them and hopefully discovering a way to be less ... thoroughly insane in the process.

I need a change of skin.

So I barely managed to get one of my assignments done this semester which sounds harmless except it was worth 50% of my grade and it's the Univeristy of Melbourne so the standard is offensively high. I'm truly appalled by the quality of work, really. Like, overachievers not-so-anonymous much?

In the spirit of resenting my classmates' success, I'ma do the truly Uni student thing and change my mind about stuff. Constantly. Originally I wanted to major in Anthropology and Social Theory. Then I was double majoring in Anthro and English. Then Anthro and Sociology. Keep in mind, by the way, that I have yet to take a single class in Anthro or Sociology. And now, without a shred of information, I'ma try Cinema Studies. What can I say, Dawson Leery has nothing on me. At least I'm not a radical Liberal or experimenting with heterosexuality. I mean, really, put my standard, adolescent changeability into perspective.