So, on a brief sojourn to the old country (Surrey) to visit my parents and have a dentist's appointment (must find one in Coventry - thank God I got the all clear though) I decided to have a rootle through some of my treasures (junk) carefully stored (stuffed) into the wardrobe in 'my' (the Spare) room. [Are you bored of the subtitles yet?]
I was hunting for an old party dress that needs a seam stitching up so I can fix it and wear it out dancing and also a heap of old notebooks that I was certain were lurking somewhere about, because I have cunning plans for turning them into little hand-written illustrated guides and recipe books, but more on that plan another time.
I quickly located the notebooks in question and was amused (or should that be horrified) to find some *really* old diaries lumped in with them. Not quite the oldest I possess, although I don;t think I'd mind too much if I never re-discovered the desperate journal from 1996 when, aged 13, I kept a diary that read more like a stalker's record of a boy I fancied, probably because he was the only boy I knew. All girls' schools are, I maintain, most unhealthy. Entries for that one, if I recall correctly run something along the lines of "Saw ***** today. he was wearing a red LaCoste t-shirt and jeans with adidas trainers and he looked really nice. I got close to him and he smelled amazing."
Anyhow, I did recover one from 1999, the year I turned 16 and everything went wrong for me in the way only teenagers can manage it, I think. Ex boyfriends, ex friends, splintered friendship groups, shattered self-esteem, burgeoning sexuality with no outlet and emotional faculties lagging somewhat behind the physical - well. The diaries read like a text book of angst, despair, self-loathing, explosive rage and tearful piteousness. It seems utterly bizarre to link those outpourings to who I am now and, re-reading them, I mostly just want to advise and protect the confused, f*cked up teenager who has set off a whole gamut of emotions in herself and all the teenagers around her and simply doesn't have the firefighting capabilities required to deal with the result.
There's a couple of close friends lost to that inferno of hormone fuelled emotion that I wish I could still call friends, but I'm not sure how I could rekindle the connection without looking like some nostalgic weirdo trying to recover the past... and to be honest I'm not sure one of them would give me the time of day anyway. I just feel a bit sad that I've lost contact with so many of the people who I shared my teen years with. Only one of my current close friends shares that kind of history with me, all the rest are from Uni or later. I suppose I just need to be stoic, though I'm not sure that's the correct word really, and accept that mistakes lead to personal development. I wonder what kind of hideous beast I'd be now if I hadn't arsed up when I was younger.
Sorry about the the slightly reflective end to this post, it started out so well with the mildly comic subtitles. Perhaps I can end on a lighter note, let me see...
Oh yes, I also found a school project from my first year at 'big' school, so it must date from about 1987. "We had pet day at shcool. I saw a god. It waged its tale" Nice to know they're still walking amongst us, huh?
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