warped

To see your body, differently, in the way you experience it is disorientating at the least.

I walk through school hallways, my limbs feeling tangled and my arms absurdly long as I attempt to put one foot in front of the other in a clear, definitive manner. My thin hair feels like string and grease as it slides weightlessly yet heavily over my face despite having washed it the night before. My jaw is clenched and hands firmly remain in the pockets of a long grey coat that falls down to just upwards of the inside of my knees. My skin did not look too bad in the small mirror by my bedside that morning and my eyebrows appeared dark and obedient. My lips pink and my eyes massively circular.

I pass people of all different walks of life. Small and tall, pretty and plain, striking and strange, painted and pure. Ones that smell of cigarettes, deodorant, sweet perfume, sour perfume and chemicals. The thin girls with the good postures and the neatly tucked in shirts pass by, walking without staring at their feet and laughing even and open-mouthed amongst friends. I walk between many of my classes independently, none of my friends possessing an identical timetable of subjects, which gives me time to observe, to think, a paper-thin attempt to justify. I see them and I walk by and I know, they do not feel clumsy.

I am quite thin but I stand funny and feel heavy, with long arms and strangely circular, blue eyes. A small curved nose that is spherical at the end and an awkward walk, a puffed bottom lip and an even grin. Wrists with pointy bones, a fluffy uneven hairline, clumsy fumbling fingers.  I smell of nothing in particular but I feel slightly sweaty and unnerved. This was what I saw in the mirror, what I saw with my eyes and senses.

Through the eyes of my friends, their cameras and double mirrors I was told differently. I am thin and light with long arms and long, long legs. My eyes are blue and somewhat slanted above bruised bags, in the centre fits a small, arced nose. My walk is cautious and consistent of small, careful steps in big, heavy boots and I have pointy bones. Pointy bones in my wrists and collarbones and elbows and shoulder blades. My grin is crooked. I smell of something sweet but they don’t know what.

I do not feel like any of these things.

My mind tricks me and my frustration grows and my slanted eyes narrow and I do not know who I am.

A body dysphoria of everything from my manner to my walk, from my nose to my talk. I save every photo I infrequently appear in, I stare at them and try to figure out why I do not feel the way I look and I why I do not look the way I feel. The person I am stuck with the most fascinates me and disgusts me in equal measure.

A lock of thin hair slides across my shoulder, the picture shows my parting looking like a zig-zag instead of the neat, straight line I saw. My head is an odd shape. I thought I knew what category I belonged in, what league, what level. My eyes look like they are different sizes, my hands look smaller than I thought.

My warped vision looks away bemusedly after passing the thin girls in the hallway and guides its way through the weaving, chattering walks of life through the veil of circus mirrors. Never knowing, never understanding, never truly seeing.

Eilidh.

 

Imperfect

Teen coming-of-age films are far too powerful in shaping how I feel my teenage years are supposed to be.

I have yet to feel completely carefree and happy around anybody at all, people in general make me uncomfortable. I do prefer my own company but to desire that all the time, would result only in loneliness and depression. Groups of teens together are never perfect as some films say them to be, no one gets on with everyone. In the midst of everybody laughing and drinking around me, I copy, yet I cannot shake the feeling of being completely and utterly out of place. I suppose that is how I always will be.

Complete comfort is not something I feel around others. I have yet to feel, within a friend group, pure happiness and a feeling of fitting in. And I am not even that strange, or awkward. I have grown quite successful at laughing encouragingly and being sure to crinkle my eyes when I do so, over half of the times when I laugh is to laugh alongside others or to fill an awkward silence. If I was not to laugh, people would think me rude or think I am merely a sullen, boring character. You have to keep laughing at their jokes, otherwise they realise what your face looks like.

I like laughing, it’s just difficult to find things that make it true.

I like comedians and their stand-up, comedy films, inside jokes with friends etc. I am going to see a comedian tonight in fact. Joe Lycett, I find similarities between him and I. A lingering awkward stance adorned with a curious flare, a staunch fear of confrontation in person and general struggler of life. I have followed his work for a while, I appreciate him for being there. Him in all his ‘painted nail, mad granny, eccentric artist’ glory. Maybe tonight will be a teen ‘coming-of-age’ moment, time will slow as an audience laughs in the empire theatre. A collection of people, different shapes and ages and lifes laughing in unison. A snapshot frame of momentary bliss. I will most likely write about this soon.

Maybe I will up to where he stands upon the stage, and smile, and garner an unknown confidence to live my life like a normal person. Without fear of people and the public and shops and restaurants and strangers and parties and living. I am aware that I am better than I was before, but it’s still not enough

Maybe one day I will be,

Eilidh.

Consistently Inconsistant

Well, it’s been a short while. I have a cold, one of those ones many get in between the transition between Summer and Autumn. The ones that are a nuisance and a depressing notion. Burning incense may or may not be wiping ash up my window, it smells of roses and smoke from what I can smell through my limited airways.

The new school year has properly started and I am anxious. Anxious because I have to start new things, that I have to ask new questions, that I have to take hold and guide my life down the correct pathway with my meagre knowledge. My anxiety is very much centred within my struggle to socialise: Social Anxiety. I attempted to pull all my courage together to attend a book club in a Waterstone’s in a close-by city; I had read the book thoroughly, I watched the newly released film and prepared. However, my effort was rendered unrequired as a friends’ birthday meal interrupted my plans, I decided I had better strengthen my friendships in my school in order to improve my fifth and sixth years there. I had an Italian meal and saw a film about a prehistoric shark, full of jumpscares. I did not jump nor scare once but laughed.

A Facebook notification, two weeks after, told me the book club would no longer run.

I hope to study English at University and in order to make up for requirement grades that I will most likely not receive, I have to show how much I like English to convince them. Merely reading books and writing short stories that I never show anyone apparently will not suffice. Thus resulting in my attempts to join a book club. And to start a blog, well, I’m here now aren’t I? I have still much to go, there are ‘to-be-confirmed’ writing classes on in the city theatre that I am still to look into, and a Creative Writing Group in my school that I will have to venture into alone as my friends are nowhere near interesting in writing through their lunchtime. I am scared, not of the group, but in general. In a very general way.

These things are new, these are things that I don’t know anyone else doing. It is as if I am paving a very extremely mundane path, hindered by insecurity and doubt. My specialities. I feel as though normal, everyday things effect me more than things that really should make me sob into my pillow, like friends with cancer and family members dying and suicide. I feel selfish but I am unsure how to stop. I recently submitted my creative piece for my English portfolio for fifth year, I love writing but I have no friends who are as equally enthused.

I suppose that is why I so willingly turned to blogging.

Maybe someone who reads this may reach out, may talk, discuss, debate. I have long since been yearning for someone with similar interest in the art of words and writing to reply. To respond. As well as someone who blogs similar content, I do often struggle with blogs and computers etc.

I also struggle with not talking like a robot online,

but please, talk to me,

Eilidh.

A complex complexion

I am pink and pale. My hands and feet turn a worrying, mottled mixture of blue and purple as soon as the temperature drops ever so slightly. I have paper-thin skin which flushes extremely easy, causing me to be an open book of emotion and no exercise. I am speckled with acne all over my chin, sloping down each side of both cheeks, crossing my upper lip and flecked sparsely upon my forehead. A lightly tanned mole is jammed under my left eye causing it to crinkle funny and my features are drowned in endless freckles, the type you have no hope in hell counting.

These are a few of the things that cause the issues I have with my skin. I type this as I gaze down at the thousands of freckles smattering my lanky, milk-bottle arms. I would also like to point out that I am not the pretty kind of pale.

I am not an elegant and blemish-free faerie queen from mythical lands or a strikingly, beautiful model that looks simultaneously like they have not slept in days. My face blossoms red, particularly my nose, in the slightest cold temperature, my freckles blend so much they look like dried dirt upon my features. My lips are generally quite pale and almost always end up matching the tone of the surrounding skin. My under-eyes are so purple I am often asked whether I sleep enough or even if I had been in a fight, no matter what I do they won’t go away. My acne stings.

Many of these were reasons for my reluctance to go on holiday. I come from the highlands of Scotland, a place of stunning views, reluctant sunlight and cool temperatures. Due to such temperatures I have the advantage of wrapping up, drowning my body in coats and jackets, jumpers and long-sleeved tops. Whereas in the warmer climates of the Channel Islands between England and France, I knew I would lose my advantage. I was also aware that I would be in a hotel with a nice pool and spa facilities, a pool I would be forced to go in. A day out to the city alongside my friends achieved myself a bikini and a few spoonfuls of anxiety.

There were absolute bloody models at the hotel when I arrived. Tall blonde girls with endless legs, clear, tanned skin and bikini bottoms that showed their whole arse. I could only imagine they were some kind of Swedish models, whereas I see myself as a speckley, freckley brunette with a bad posture and similar attitude. However in I came in a ropey, white bikini from H&M blanketed up by the hotel owned dressing gowns that smelt pretentiously of lavender. Pale, pink body and all. A second however includes that as they frolicked and giggled with open, pearly toothed grins in the cerulean water, I lay upon the chairs, huddled up with my copy of ‘Lolita,’ pages wrinkled from the chlorine air. I studied H.Humbert’s obsessive description of ‘Lo’, almost matching each detail with the girls. I suppose I am not a 40-something year old’s type. Shame.

I typed this out without proof-reading so please don’t shoot me for mistakes,

I am already a mistake enough,

Just kidding,

Eilidh

Exam Results

I receive my exam results tomorrow.  On the general idea I am not completely worried but when I really think about each individual subject and memory of experience when sitting the exam, my heart freezes up a bit.

It doesn’t help that my mum is frantically searching for her purse containing all of her bank cards and asking whether or not it is too late to drive to the police station.

I feel frustrated when I think about how much control these measly pieces of paper hold over my near and far futures, to be judged and given a grade solely upon one single performance. It is not reliable, countless analysis of biology experiments which I have preformed in class and written about in my actual exam say so. How hypocritical.

Thinking about my subjects feels all too daunting. A mixture of English (first, foremost and favourite), History, Gaelic (Scottish not Irish), Biology, Art and lastly Maths. Mathematics and I live in a tumultuous and bittersweet relationship. I see the attraction to Maths quite clearly, the unchangeable logic and satisfying motions from rules giving you a correct answer at the end of the rainbow is a feeling of upmost relief. It is rare this occurs for me but when it does, the appeal rings clear. However, I am often left in severe frustration and spitting poison at the never ending rule book of equations. I cannot, for the life of me, seem to wrap my head around them all. But this may be due to the fact I hardly ever revised for maths, except for the last five days leading up to the exam itself.

I am my own worst enemy.

I am one of those people who was a constant over-achiever throughout primary years and early secondary years, one who didn’t need to revise due to being able to withdraw the knowledge from my conscience. Yet as the years progressed and the knowledge required became increasingly more in-depth and obscure, my bad habits dug their heels down and stuck. I have been distractedly bashing at those habits with a blunt stick for a while now. They have one heel somewhat unstuck. I digress.

Whatever results I receive tomorrow, I will force myself to smile and joke. Frown then accept. Think deeply then carry on. I want to do good, I do. And I will.

Eventually.

Eilidh x