Yes, I’m happy. I’m happier, in terms of my sense of freedom, and the choices I can make in life. I wouldn’t dare ask or wish to return back home. Home isn’t London any more, it’s here. It’s this room, these four walls; my lumpy bed, my sink, my clutter, my ability to make this space mine. My flatmates… Well they’re okay. We get along, but I can’t help but feel that we only get along because none of us want to be the cause of an actual argument. Which if you think about it, is an even worse position to be in; it’s all niceties and faux happiness, an interest in one another. I feel like, in respect to my flatmates, that I’ve gone back to school. They’re just immature, and it’s like I’m surrounded by people who I thought I had finally managed to remove from my life. Not to mention, being the only gay in the flat (there’s ten of us here, mind you), it’s a little difficult, and lonely at times.

But it’s not really that, that’s the cause of what I’ve been feeling for months. It’s this unabanishing feeling of loss, and incompleteness. Moreover, the more I think about it, the more pathetic I think I become; but in reality, I actually cannot get over my history teacher. I love her; and it’s breaking me.

I don’t miss anyone from home; my Mum… Well, definitely not. The rest of family, certainly not. My friends? I learnt recently how much we’ve grown apart; and being back around them again for a short period over Christmas just made it all the more clear why I chose in the first place to go to a university that no one I know is going to. I don’t miss them, and all in all, I don’t feel like I need them.

But being back, also brought me closer to that person who I want to see more than anyone else in the world. Granted, I know she lives no where near I do; but even just being able to walk past by my old school, and know that she was only there a few days before; it filled me with hope and pain. I was shaking under the control I exerted over myself to not cry. It wouldn’t do to cry in front of my old school around my friends. They don’t understand… I don’t expect them to, I don’t even understand. This whole scenario is just fucking crazy.

But then, when the date of my return back to uni came, I eagerly packed myself away, and left. Once I got to London St. Pancras, where I would get on my train out of London, I was stunned.

Do you ever feel like the world is trying to tell you something? Do you ever feel like you are being given signs from the environments and random people around you, to do something completely off the hook?

Well, that day I did. No matter where I went, I was questioned by the environment; it felt like the world was trying to communicate with me. It was telling me that I needed to go, not back to university, but to go and get her; tell her everything, and make it a possibility.

The thing is, I could have done exactly that.

I had a realisation too, that apart from my commitments to my job, there was nothing and/or nobody awaiting me. At uni, I would be the only one in the flat for well over a week, there was no family member awaiting me, no friend waiting to collect me. Nothing. If my Mum wanted to know where I was, it was up to me to tell her where I was… And what was going to stop me from telling her a lie? There was nothing; and I had everything, literally on my back, that I needed to do whatever I wanted. I had enough money, I had my passport (if I wanted to go abroad), I had enough clothes, and everything else to do whatever I wanted.

And, I actually considered just that. I weighed up my options. I could return to uni, and continue to feel lost, alone, incomplete, and broken; or I could go to her. I could find her, and at least make some effort to make it happen… Because at least if I tried, it was better knowing the truth, than never knowing at all, isn’t it?

Or my final option. Get on the Eurostar, and begin again. New country, new everything. It might have been beautiful.

The invisibility that I felt during those moments was quite possibly the most empowering, and dangerous feeling I’ve had in a long time, if not forever. Everything was possible.

However, as ever, I resided myself to not taking the risks… I wouldn’t want to waste the £20 I spent on my train ticket would I? And what if someone noticed too quickly that I was gone, and then I was found? Or what if, I took that train to her, and I was rejected, and embarrassed? What would happen then?

Which is why I find myself sitting in my room now; my head in a constant battle with itself. One side saying “Well done”, and the other declaring war.

The result of this?

I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t concentrate, I can’t do my work, I can’t talk to anyone, I can’t feel happy, and I can’t forget. I’m becoming numb, and a non-human. I’m a zombie. I feel sick, I feel weak, and I feel like I’m going crazy. In fact, I’m worried I am already crazy; I keep hearing voices, and this voice keeps speaking to me. I’ve even hallucinated seeing her around; which I know cannot be the case.

This is fucking killing me.

I was speaking to my friend the other day, and absently my mind wandered; recalling back to my first “real” friendship I ever created with anyone else. This, in turn, got me thinking about my very first day of school, ever.

I believe the year was 1995, I was walked into this building – school – with my Mum, and my Step-dad, my little brother might have been there too, but I can’t quite remember. I had on my new school uniform, complete with blue jumper with the school logo, and my new (and very first) backpack – which was my pride and joy.

I remember, all the parents of the new Reception year gathered in the Infant Hall, still trying to find a way to keep their child close to them, to return them home to the safety of their careful and close watch. Tears were shed, and as my Mum has recalled to me many-a-time, many by her.

Eventually I was called, and shuffled off to my class. My teacher, Mrs. R, had a class of about twenty-five. The school smelt weird, but now whenever I come across that same smell (which I occasionally do), its rather soothing and special.

The rest of the class had all sat down, and it would appear I was the last, or at least, one of the last, be seated. Everyone sat still, but there was an air of uncertainty, and with everyone else at least, of shared nervousness.

I sat myself down in the middle of the red carpet (as you do at that age), and I remember very clearly to the right of me, a girl. She had brown hair and brown eyes – much like myself – and sweet, soft smile and face. She looked popular, she looked special. Like all of those kids on children’s television programmes, who always had the most friends. I remember I sat close to her, and although I was completely and utterly scared, I couldn’t help but turn my head, and keep smiling at her.

Instantly I was jealous. I found out rather quickly, as Mrs. R made us stand-up and give brief introductions of ourselves, the vast majority of my class had all attended the Schools’ Nursery. I, had attended Nursery once, hated it, and pleaded to leave. So by the time I started school, I had never had a friend, never really engaged with children of my own age, I never knew anyone. This brown-haired girl, who I learned was named Jodie*, already had a friend, Amelia*.

The pair of them together were rather quite amazing, I seem to remember thinking. They were close friends, everyone knew them, and everyone held them in high esteem. I didn’t know why, of course, but I learnt quickly that they were the ‘popular girls’, the ones, that even at the tender age of four, everyone was trying to be, and the boys, wanted to be around.

Over the course of the year, we somehow managed to become friends. How, I can’t say. I daresay I was the most socially inept of all in my class, but I was enchanted by Jodie. Not so much by Amelia, who I quickly learned also won complete favour of teachers and their assistants. She was the one who I always considered I had to measure up to, and I couldn’t – for a number of reasons – my talent and genius just didn’t extend to hers. Even now, I still doubt it does.

It came a surprise to me some weeks or months later when I learnt that Jodie, had always lived extremely close to me, in fact, no more than a hundred or a hundred-and-fifty metres at the very most. I remember, every morning – for her parents were apparently more organised than mine – watching her through my window as she walked to school.

Some time passed, and soon I found myself progressing through the school hierarchy, and I reached Year 1. Mrs C was now my teacher – a funny woman, scary sometimes – and a little ignorant – but full of surprises.

The most I seem to remember of my first three years of school, is that it seemed as though it was constantly raining. Try as I might, I cannot recall a single hot and sunny day, between the ages of five and eight.

On one particularly drizzly day, Jodie and I were walking home, along with our parents who were walking hastily before us. That day, had been “Wet Play”, meaning it was raining at lunch, and instead of shuffling about outside, we were allowed to sit in our respective classrooms, drawing and reading and the like. Jodie, Amelia and I had spent the lunch drawing and chatting, I recall.

Anyways, on this walk home, I remember we were having a conversation about love and hate. Don’t ask how two six/seven-year olds came about this topic, but we were. I remember looking at a puddle, that looked mesmersing, as it was tainted with petrol, and in the light made beautiful colours and patterns, and I said to Jodie: “I love you”.

She looked at me, with a look of either horror or disgust, and I followed with “I love you, as a friend. You’re my friend, and you can love people as friends”, she replied with something negative, something along the lines of “No, you can’t love me, that’s wrong/weird” or something.

Thinking back now, this was if anything quite a brave and mature declaration, I think. Apart from saying it to my family, and at the time God (because thanks to certain family members, I was nightly-praying, God-loving, brain-washed Christian), I had never said it to anyone else.

I think now, back to that friendship, which actually lasted, and strengthened considerably over a number of years until I was about eleven; what did I mean? I know now, and I knew then, that I did mean it, in my own little weird way. I don’t think I ever fancied her, or had a crush on her as such, but I did love her, even as a friend. My attempt at trying to explain what I meant, even now, doesn’t make much sense. But friends, well, they do love each other. It takes a certain amount of love for two people, or a group of people to exist together happily. We care for our friends, worry, and feel concern for them, and we share their emotions, their happiness, their sadness, their nervousness, or guilt. That’s what friendship is; but to do that, I believe there has to be love. You cannot instil that much emotion and devotion to another person without love; and that doesn’t mean sexual love. Just love. Plain and simple.

She didn’t understand that, and following our little conversation she sped up to catch up with her Mum, and we went our separate ways home. We never spoke of that again, even years later when we used to stay up all night, sleeping round each others’ houses, sharing baths, and such as bestfriends, do or could. I learnt recently infact, that my other female friends also shared baths with their bestfriends; it made me feel less weird about the situation.

I think now, what was that declaration? Some part of me claims that this was my first subtle indicator of who I am now, but actually, although the words were said then, I think my being drawn to her on that very first day of school, is somehow much more symbolic – although I’ve told anyone that.

For many years the she and I were friends (and I mean, we were, just friends, best-friends, but nothing ever more than that), I always imagined her forming part of my future. Maybe it was childhood naivety, fantasy and ignorance; but I don’t know. I can’t explain this well, but whenever I want to go to sleep, and for some-reason or another, I can’t, I have this place, that I imagine, that I go to. This place is a beach, it’s sandy, there’s a large rock, palm-trees, a sunset, and the smooth gentle sway of the sea, caressing he beach. In this place, I’m there, and I can take with me someone else. For about three or four years, Jodie was always with me in this place.  , and especially those nights where we stayed round each others’ houses, and I could hear her breathing, I would imagine she and I walking, barefoot, in the sand as the shore lapped at our ankles, walking hand-in-hand forever. I would dream that we would live together, and be together for ever.

That, I think it was I really meant by love. Just having a person around you, someone you could call on forever, but it took a few years for me to realise this – and I never told her how often she occurred in my dreams, or how she would always guide me to them, in my head.

Now, I see her occasionally. I bumped into her at the pub not so long ago, in fact. She’s still rather beautiful, and the has that ability to command everyone’s attention, for everyone to acknowledge who and what she is. And no, I don’t go to sleep dreaming of holding her hand any more, or living with her; but on the odd occasion I do see her about, I wonder, if we had stayed friends for longer, if we hadn’t have had that big argument when we were eleven, would anything have happened? It was only a few years later that I had my first proper girl-crush, and I wonder, could that have been her? And considering our closeness – which I can’t put into words – would something have happened? More than just me hiding away and denying like I eventually did?

It’s just odd, thinking and feeling so uncertain. I’m leaving her (although really, I left her years ago), and everyone else I love (family and friends) behind very, very soon. I wish I felt more certain of myself. I mean, I know I’m gay, I’m more than sure of that; but I wish I had some sort of external validity to confirm that, sometimes. I wish I wasn’t nearly nineteen with absolutely no sexual experience with another person, I wish I knew how it felt to be really, physically close to another person, beyond the odd experiences mentioned in previous posts on this blog. I wish also, that I had more confidence, both when I was six – to explain what I meant, to make her understand – and later when I learnt information (such as, what the word ‘lesbian’ meant, when I was accused of being one at the age of ten), and not making snide remarks and following the crowd, but pressing myself to know. I feel like I’ve wasted so much time; and now I’m stepping into the world with nothing more than my written ramblings to assure me of everything I proclaim to know about myself.

I suppose really, I wish I wasn’t so afraid. Afraid of rejection, of taunts, of hate, of being misunderstood, of doing or getting it wrong, of embarrassing myself, of acting out of turn, of making a fool of myself, of people knowing my weaknesses, of people knowing me and how I feel.

Firstly, and most importantly, is that I had my final A Level Exams. I shan’t dwell on what I cannot change, but all I know now is that in less than a months’ time I shall know how horribly wrong the whole ordeal actually went. I’ve come to my own personal firm acceptance that the likelihood of me getting into my first choice Uni is next to nothing, but I’m happy with my Insurance, and actually, the more I come to think of it, it puts me more out of the way from people (including friends and family) who I want to escape. (More on that later)

Secondly, as always, my life seems to be the epicentre of boredom. According to all of my teachers (who, apart from dreaded Results Day, I won’t have any reason to see again), this is the “best summer of [my] life”. In all honesty, now, some two months after having finished school, and under a month of completing my last exam, the prospect of having another two and half months waiting dormant ahead of me, filled by yet more nothingness, just fills me with sickness.

This of course brings me back to updating on what hasn’t been occurring in my life since May 21^st. Apart from numbing my brain with endless weeks of revision, numerous exams, and incessant forgetfulness, the rest of my time has actually been spent sitting at home doing nothing, or frantically searching for a job. Apparently no one wants to hire me. Knobs, the lot of them! I would like to say they are losing out, but in fact, it’s more the other way round. With no money, and no income this summer, and any Uni preparations I will need to make are going to be rather crap.

I did however manage to get myself into London for Pride. This, I have to admit, was my first time attending the London event; I’ve previously attended Brighton Pride twice, and I absolutely love it. Whilst I can’t say London matches up with the energy, and the whole atmosphere that Brighton has to offer, it was still a really enjoyable day.

I managed to get rather drunk (drinking beer and cider, despite actually hating both drinks), and ended up talking complete and utter crap to some lovely lesbians that my friends and I met. Shamefully though, I failed in any attempt to ‘pull’, and for reasons that my drunk, and now sober mind cannot comprehend, none of us made it to any of the after-parties that we all wanted to gate-crash.

There was however one particular person, who I shall refer to as Brunette. She was very, very, nice. I spoke to her for some time (in my drunken state, of course – I wouldn’t have the courage anyway); but I soon learned she had her eyes on my friend. My friend who happens to have a boyfriend (she’s the bisexual one), and now complains to me on a daily basis that she “can’t decide” between her existing boyfriend, and flirting Brunette. Of course, when she phones me daily to have this little moan, I sit and listen uncomfortably, adding in the “Umms”, “Yeahs” and appropriate “Ohhs” when I need to. But mainly I sit and think “Fuck you”.

After spending my entire life being such an unloved, lonely, shit lesbian that I am, it’s extremely frustrating to have a friend who complains about having too many people. And what do you say to someone when you have absolutely no advice to give, other than to stop being such a heartless, greedy bitch?

Maybe I’m being a little crass, but it’s annoying. I’m fed up of going out with her and the rest of my friends, and having to be constantly reminded of how fucking good she is getting with people, “I just snogged that girl”, “that boy over there just groped my arse”, “I just got off with my fourth person this night”.

This brings me around to my current state, and predicament. It’s taken two months, but it’s finally hit me, I’ve left school, FOREVER. This means that beyond Results Day (shudder), I never, ever, have a reason or an excuse, or even the chance (unless by coincidence) to ever see Ms. Smith ever, ever again! And this hurts. It hurts like hell.

See, the other day I had to back to school to help with something, to do with her department. But the week before I went into school my mind began plaguing itself with thoughts of her; her eyes, her body, her voice, just, absolutely and utterly everything about her that I like – which turns out to be absolutely everything about her. I was having dreams about her again (not that I can complain, of course), and whenever her name came into my head, or I came across her subject folder strewn across my bedroom floor (along with everything else mind you), I would get the same agonising, and yet warming sinking feeling as I did whenever I bumped into her around school.

Then of course I got to see her again, and we stood, we talked for a bit, I got lost staring into her eyes, and it literally took every ounce of energy and strength within me to not just take hold of her, and hold her within my arms. I realised too, that doing this would be extremely creepy, and would no-doubt result in some sort of arrest, or assisted removal from the school grounds.

Fuck, I sound like a freak. But it was horrible, and it’s even more horrible now sitting in my bedroom feeling like I’ve lost the one woman who I think can ever make me happy.

I know I’m young, and I know there are plenty more other people out there, but “Love is Blind”, and when you’re that close to someone who you’ve lusted over, and wanted, and loved for so long, knowing that you’re unlikely to see them, or be near them again – it’s heartbreaking.

So now, instead of enjoying what should be the best summer of my life, I’m sat at home, alone, pondering over unrequited love, wishing that I had someone to snuggle up to. Matters are made worse now that I am officially the only person in my friend group who is not loved up in some form or another, and being surrounded by couples, means I am more or less constantly surrounded by people who have the one thing that I really, really, really, really, want. It’s depressing.

I shall not add to the length of this blog with even more tales of my unhappiness and woe, (because believe me, there is more – arguments’an’all – but I shall save that for another post).

X

P.S: I realised that my lost Blog was posted before my Prom, so I feel I should do a quick update on how that went.

So the Friday dawned, and there I was walking about the school, feeling untouchable. Ms. Smith was going to be there, I was going to be there, alcohol was going to be there, loud music and the like would be present, and it was perfect. I felt so happy. I had my outfit planned and sorted, and I was looking forward to it, immensely.

Then, as I walking about during lunch I bumped into Ms. Smith, who greeted me in her usual way, asked me how I was, and if I was looking forward to the Prom, “Yes, I’m really excited” I replied, sneakily eying her up. She then, as I presumed she was off to the Staff Room was in need of another coffee said as she began to walk again “Well I hope you have good time”, to which I replied “Aren’t you going to be there?”, at which point, she stopped, turned back around, and my heart must’ve fallen out of my bum, because the look on her face, and the tone of her voice told me she wasn’t. Something to do with the teacher’s list being messed up, and some teachers now not being able to go, or something. Honestly, in the space of a millionth of a second I went from being the happiest version of me, ever, to complete and utter internal mess. I figured she must have realised my distress as she tried to tell me “It’s alright though, Miss Jones is going to be there” to which I thought “I want you there, not her”. After talking for a few minutes, I sulked off.

Hours and hours later at the prom (and after a bottle of wine, I needed it), I was standing with some friends, taking photos when Miss Jones came over, “Ms Smith asked me to get some photos seeing as she couldn’t be here tonight”, so we all posed, giving our best smiles. Then Miss Jones continued – AND I SWEAR ON MY LIFE THAT THIS HAPPENED AS I’M ABOUT TO WRITE IT – “You know that thing, about that person, well, they know”. She literally said that to me, in front of a bunch of my friends, and a load of other students, to which I turned the colour of a tomato and said “What?!?” to which she only smiled. A couple of my peers from my Maths class were there too, and knew exactly what she was on about, and we all just stood around in utter disbelief.

I spent the rest of the evening feeling vaguely sick, and Miss Jones kept giving me reassuring but knowing smiles.

Then the next and final week of school, everything continued as normal. Then came the last Maths lesson, and we all just sat and spoke to one another. Ms Smith made a little speech about it being weird that anyone could think that “forty year olds and eighteen year olds could hang around each other”.

Final and last day of school, a few of my friends and I decided to rule-break, and get drunk at school (why not, eh?), so by half nine in the morning we were all utterly off of our faces. Once all of the formalities had been completed (final assembly etc), we all went off down to the pub. I had more to drink (not such a great idea), and by 3:30pm, I was wobbling around everywhere and talking complete and utter crap. Just as I was about to leave, SHE, Ms Smith walked in. She offered to buy me a drink, “Vodka and coke please”,

“Do you want a double?”

“Err, no thanks… I’ve already had a bit to drink”,

“Oh, are you sure, you can have a double if you like?”

“No thanks”

So she got me a single, and we all sat down. Then for reasons that I cannot quite remember we were talking about gay teachers at school (don’t ask me how, I was very drunk at this point). Then, the teacher who is close friends with Ms Smith who apparently already knew about my liking for her began speaking to me. We were talking about Miss Jones, and she asked me, “Do you like her?”

Now, bearing in mind that I was completely and utterly off of my face; and when I am in said state pretty much everything that is said to me is processed by my mind as something to do with sex. Don’t ask why, my mind is fucking weird.

So, with this in mind, I automatically answered “No”, with me thinking that she asked me if I liked her, as in, did I fancy her.

Then I quickly realised what she probably meant to say, my mind catching on to the fact that she wasn’t one of my friends who tends to ask me awkward questions when I am drunk, but a teacher, who was probably asking a very innocent question, I began spewing out more words along the lines of:

“Oh, no, no, no! I do like her, she’s a really good teacher, and her lessons are really fun!”

I continued on with that for about a minute, hoping to at least convince her that I hadn’t just shunned one of my teachers, whilst sat next to the teacher who I must definitely wanted to get into the pants of.

This other teacher just looked at me, gave me yet another reassuring-but-knowing smile.

MOST EMBARRASSING CONVERSATION WITH A TEACHER EVER.

Moral of the lesson? Don’t talk to teachers – especially teachers who are aware of your love for other teachers – whilst completely and utterly drunk.

(See, I told you, it would only be a quick update!)

It turns out that Ms Smith my err… “Maths” teacher is actually aware of my long-term crush, thanks to a couple of my friends.

Forgetting the horrendousness of my classmates informing my other Maths teacher Miss Jones about my love for her – which believe has to be one of the most singular both embarrassing, torturing and angering moments of my life – has been topped by my friends.

As I mentioned previously, I had been told by a friend that there was a possibility that a close teacher friend of Ms Smith had found out. How, I wasn’t too sure – which left me feeling slightly weary of this new-found piece of information – but still continued to cause me much distress.

Then, following an utterly embarrassing lesson with Miss Jones – who continued to literally cry with laughter at the mere mention of my name and Ms Smith’s name together, in conjunction of course with a number of knowing and shooting stares, just told me more than I needed to know.

I digress; this was only the half of it, as I later found out that same day that two of my friends had in fact engaged in a conversation about me and Ms Smith, in one of their lessons. It just so happens that the teacher of the lesson was in fact the close friend of Ms Smith, and apparently she asked questions, but “already knew”.

Of course I panicked. In fact, I got completely drunk last week to make up for this shame. It didn’t work, all I could think about was Ms Smith, her perfect beautiful body, her warm smile, and those eyes. Wow. Then it suddenly hit me, she knew. There was no way in hell that two teachers, both of whom she speaks to on a day-to-day basis (not forgetting of course, all of their classrooms are either opposite or next to each other) – had not in some form or another relayed this information back to her.

Luckily, I think things may be slightly improving. I mean, she’s actually taken to talking to me again this week; which of course is always a good thing.

However, with only one week left, and of course Prom, what do I do? Everyone else seems to have taken it upon themselves to plan out my failing love life – and as much as I appreciate their concern and sentiment – they seem to forget that chatting up your teacher is easier said than done. Eurgh, I fail.

Hmm, I don’t know. I’m not going to make a fool out of myself, I’m not. Every single part of me is telling me that this is quite possibly the worst idea that I have ever had. I’ve pondered the stupidity of my love for her for years, I even have a whole note-book dedicated to random writing, where I spill my thoughts out, in the vain attempt to try and make something that I feel, seem vaguely coherent.

I mean, is it so wrong to just want to hold a woman around the waist and kiss her?

I’ve mentioned previously that there’s a “particularly fanciable, sexy, beautiful, fabulous teacher that I am hopelessly in love with” at my school. It’s true, she’s beautiful – although not in a typically recognised sense of the word – sexy, and well, just generally utterly quite amazing.

The problem is, is that with little under two weeks until my ultimate departure from school, I think she may have found out about by burning desire to well… y’know!

Way back in January I was in “Maths”; my other classmates (only about eight of them) found out the previous November about my liking for her. It was compleltely accidental, and I did try my hardest to try and convice them otherwise, however this was not to be. In January however, they decided to annouce my love for this teacher, whom I shall name Ms Smith, to my other teacher in the department. I thought I was going to die… But she tried to get the others to shut up, etc.

Since then, when they get bored in lessons they decide to mention Ms Smith at any given opportunity. My other teacher (who knows – Miss Jones) has always told them to shut-up, ignored them, or whatever. Something along those lines at least.

However, a couple of weeks ago, I was informed by a friend that another teacher in the school, who happens to be quite good friends with Ms Smith is also aware of my crush/love for her. I couldn’t quite work out if my friend was just trying to wind me up, which actually, is quite a high possibility, but even so, it bothered me.

Now, since this piece of information has come to light, Ms Smith, who previously was always quite chatty with me, nice to me, would hold eye-contact with me, and such, has ceased nearly all of her interactions with me. – Well, at least I think so.

I’m now stuck in a horrible dilemma. I don’t know if I am being overtly paranoid because I think she knows and I’m seeing things which aren’t really there, or, she does infact know, and now she thinks that I am a right loser, perve (granted), and an all-round weirdo. Not to mention, Miss Jones earlier today when someone made a lovely comment about myself and Ms Smith, nearly pissed herself with laughter – suggests to me that more people know, and what they know seems to clicked on that it might be somewhat true.

Am I going crazy? Possibly. But it’s also quite depressing.

I don’t want her to think I am a complete loser, and nor do I want her to stop talking to me. I quite like our conversations – and yes, I am aware that the probability of her being gay, or at least on the spectrum are quite low (she has told me on a number of occasions about a number of men in her life), and not least because of her job and position. In fact, I would never do anything because of that. I have too much respect for her as a teacher to ever compromise her position. But at the same time, I like our relationship. It’s weird to explain, but even just the pleasure of knowing her is sometimes more than enough.

Even more troublesome, is that next week is my Leavers Prom, also known as, everyone get’s utterly pissed Prom. staff and Students have for many years previous to mine, made this an occasion to drink far too much alcohol, take bad photographs and engage in some dodgy dancing together. However, as I have said before, my track record with alcohol puts me in the position of revealing too much. She’s already said that she’s going (in fact, she’s going to the pub before hand to load herself up on alcohol). I just fear that I’ll make a fool out of myself.

How embarrassing would that be?

Fuck, I need to stop over-thinking everything. Hopefully she doesn’t know, or if she does, she won’t make it awkward. I can live in hope for a number of circumstances too, but I know that the likelihood of them ever coming into being are nil.  I just can’t make a fool out of myself!

He, I’ve come to note, is not only my best friend, but also someone I love. He’s gay, don’t you worry, and I certainly don’t want to get into his pants; but I do love him, and it’s amazing.

Whenever I am not around him, I think about him. At the weekends, say we don’t meet up or do anything (which happens quite a lot), I actually miss him. Whenever I see him I have the overwhelming urge to hug him, and although on occasion he can annoy the hell out of me, the majority of the time he makes me very happy.

It’s a very nice feeling, and one I’ve come to miss.

See, a few years ago I fell in love, in fact, this love I felt for this remarkable woman still exists now. Every time I see her, or think of her, or hear the mention of her name, my heart just drops. My whole body reacts, and I’m flooded with what I can only describe as the most powerful feeling ever. I feel unbreakable, and I feel intensely happy and overwhelmed.

But when I first felt this, it overtook me. I never honestly believed in love that could hurt, but it’s true, it did. Feeling how I did, with no way to express it, and knowing it would never be reciprocated, it hurt. It hurt so much that I actually couldn’t eat or sleep properly for about two months. Everything I did was consumed by these lovely and poetic thoughts about this woman that I was so in love with. Nothing could break the hypnotic trance that she had unknowingly placed upon me.

I couldn’t dare compare my platonic feelings to this incredible first love feeling I had, because I don’t think I could ever feel like that again. It was beyond intense, but it was also beautiful, and I feel thankful that I have been able to feel it.

Even though my platonic feelings are completely different, that giddy, and consuming feeling is still all there; and I like it. Even if at the present I am destined to by lonely, and lacking any sort of “love life”, at least I can feel somewhat content with this supplement.

Last night, following a complete lack of planning, and an overwhelming desire to “chill”, and escape this dreadful house, a couple of friends and I went out to a park and got drunk. Yes, I’m eighteen years old, but seriously, it’s far better than spending a night in a horrible, sweaty, man-filled club, trying hard to pretend that everything is better when its not.

So my friends Jenny, and Sarah* and I sat in a cold, wet park and drank cheap alcohol.

As with any time I am in the presence of Sarah, and especially when either one of us are intoxicated, the conversation always leads back to sex. Me being drunk an’ all, means I end up disclosing far more than I anticipated. Oddly enough, most of conversation stemmed around masturbation (it’s weird; I’ve never had a conversation with people who talk so openly about their wanking habits). Needless to say, it’s actually quite fascinating. This thing that everyone does, but is seldom spoken of, can really bring people together.

Pillow-humping, dry-wanking, and fingering (all such lovely terms there), are just some of the things we discussed, as well as how many times we all do it. I feel like I need to catch up, even though my libido seems to be in overdrive at the moment.

Talking about sex though, always makes me feel horny. I feel like that is the wrong word to describe it, but y’know, it just does. Not because I’m necessarily attracted to the person I’m discussing it with (although in Jenny’s case, that would be true), but because my mind floods with thoughts and imagery.

Before long though the alcohol had been consumed, and the weather took a turn for the worse, so we made our way back to Jenny’s house.

What occurred here was surreal, sexy, and enlightening.

Jenny and Sarah just started masturbating in front of me. Despite my drunkenness, and my want to join in (and Jenny asking me to join in with her – why I said no, I do not know), they just did it. It was amazing.

I’ve heard other people have sex before, in fact I’ve had the misfortune of sharing a bed with people having sex (not nice I tell you); but hearing (and seeing) people having a wank? There’s something quite different.

It’s one of the most private things we do. The English seldom discuss let-alone communally share our masturbating rituals. This was something, which was completely new. It being so private, and being something which is normally kept behind closed doors, just made it incredibly sexy.

However, I do fall into that category where such things remain behind closed doors. I’m not as open as Sarah and Jenny, by any stretch of the imagination. But having to sleep next to Jenny in her bed after they’d finished, was impossible.

I was awake for about three hours, having to hold my arms around myself, because the urge to touch her, to feel her, to have any part of her on me, overwhelmed my excitable imagination. I kept thinking back to Christmas when she stayed round mine (when her Girlfriend was away), and every thought made it even more impossible to sleep, even more impossible to relieve my mind of sexual thought, passion and desire.

Every time she would turn around her sleep, I could feel some part of her body brush up against mine, and she entwined her legs around mine, and put her arm over my neck. Shockwaves were shooting around my body.

Everything was just so sensual. Once you’ve seen two of your friends mount each other, mid-wank, and dry hump, you’ve heard their sighs and their breaths, and everything that occurs, it induces something in you. Think porn, but a million times better. Yet, there I was, laying next to the girl who I’ve wanted for so long, feeling overwhelmingly sexual, having to push my body into the mattress and wall, just so I wouldn’t molest her in her sleep.

Needless to say, I’m incredibly tired today. But I also have a good night ahead of me – I’m actually hitting a gay club! Updates on that will follow.

I feel so sick, and angry. I’m angry that once again she’s allowed this to happen, with a man, who has previously shown that he would if he could, a man who everyone has warned her against. I know she’s not an innocent victim in this, I know it. I know her. I know how she is, even without being fuelled by a night of continuous drinking, and spliffs. I know how she’s even more intolerable, even more obscure and fucked up in this state. I’m angry that she allows herself to still find herself in this position.

Worse, there was someone here who could have stopped it.

See, I was asleep. When I’m asleep I’m paralysed, and deaf. I don’t hear a thing, there was utterly no way of me knowing that my Mother was being punched around the face nearly two-dozen times if nobody got me. My Brother, who is nearly seventeen years old was awake however, and he heard what was going on. He’s strong, he could have stepped in, or if he didn’t (which is apparently the case) he could have at least come into my room and told me to get out of bed – but did he?

No.

So I’m also angry at him. I’m angry that he didn’t do a single bloody thing. He knows the consequences of these things, he’s seen it all before – although when he was younger, Mother and I tried to shelter him from the true realities of what occurred; but he’s no fool. He knows my Mother just as well I do, and he knows enough that he should have stepped in to help, to have done something.

Worse still, right now I’m not even meant to be at home. I was invited out by my school, with a few other of the geekiest students for a Breakfast on the school. It’s a really nice idea, and I was quite looking forward to it. Yet I find myself cowering up in my bedroom, waiting for some other family to arrive, brewing even more anger.

Why does this have to keep happening? Why on earth am I surrounded by people, or more specifically a person, who just attracts all of the bastards to her? Why am I always the one expected to pick up the pieces?

I can’t handle it anymore. In fact, I’ve never been able to handle it, but at least when it happened when I was younger, I was a harder person. I could at least pretend to carry on (even when I couldn’t), in fact I would often wake up in the morning, see my mother in a terrible state, try to console her, then walk to school and talk to my friends as if nothing has happened. I just can’t be that person any more. I can’t carry the weight of her shit any more. I can’t.

Worse though, is that I look at her and I feel absolutely no sympathy. She’s still drunk, she stinks of alcohol and weed, talking utter shit (which I know may be in part to semi-concussion – head punching tends to have that effect), but I feel nothing for her except contempt and anger.

I don’t know what to do anymore. At least for the next five or so weeks I have left at school, I have somewhere to escape during the day. Somewhere to go where I can pretend to be  happy, to lead a life reflective of a typical eighteen year old. But what happens when I have a fifteen week Summer ahead of me? What do I do then? I can’t be around her, I can’t be here, I won’t be able to remain sane.

Fuck.

Then I grew up.

Y’see, round about four or five years ago about now, I awoke one morning and I realised something. Negative thoughts perpetuate negative actions, negative actions perpetuate negative reactions, which then feed back into my original negative thoughts. My locus of control at the point was internalised; if I wanted change, I had to make it; I couldn’t rely upon my teachers, the pricks from school, or anyone else. I had to change the things I wanted to see changed.

So I embarked upon a journey of realisation. I would step-away from bad situations, I wouldn’t allow myself to get angry, nor would I violently react to others. I didn’t want to fight any more, and I certainly didn’t want to be alone. Spending the first three years of High School absolutely friendless, was one of the most heart-breaking times of my life.

To this day, I still consider myself on this very same path to internalised enlightenment. I’m not perfect, I know that; but I try. I try so hard to ensure I never return to that foul, and utterly detestable being that I once was. I don’t want to hurt my friends, nor do I want to push the people I care about most, away from me. Moreover, I want to be in touch with my feelings; I don’t want to resort to outbursts in order to suppress my true emotions – it’s not healthy.

But of course, there are times where we will all be pushed. I remember a few years ago, I was about sixteen, and this little boy pushed me too far. He said and did some things which on top of a number of other things on my mind, pushed me over. I remember I went on a mini-rampage. I literally chased him around the School. eventually caught hold of him, and found myself fist in the air, shouting, swearing, and pulling at him.

That scared me.

I remember I ran off to the toilets, where a nice Teacher later found me crying, and all I could say was “I’m so ashamed of myself, I hate myself… I don’t want to be this person any more.”

I vowed once again I wouldn’t allow that situation to arise.

Since then, there have been a small number of other situations where I found myself flooded with anger, ready and willing to hurt and destroy whatever is in my way. When people push me too far, I will react, but it takes so much inner strength to counter-act that small part of me which wishes to still dominate.

Then of course recently there was the issue of that mini-fight I had with Jenny. I reacted, when maybe I shouldn’t have, but even now I still will not allow someone to go about pushing me around, trying to hurt me without them knowing that I won’t take it. Should anyone have to take someone else’s violent actions, purely because your reaction will be labelled? I don’t think so… Yet this is what has happened.

Weeks later from this event, this boy, who annoyingly has managed to squeeze himself into the friendship group (and who I am increasingly learning to despise), keeps bringing this up. “You’re violent”, “You’re so angry”, “You pulled out Jenny’s hair!”. “Stop being so violent” – I mean, what the hell?

Firstly, I didn’t pull out her hair. Where he got that idea from, I do not know. Did I have a clump of her hair in my hand? No, not to mention I’m sure she would have actually felt it if I did.

Secondly, why am I the violent one, when she was the one who initiated the physical stuff?

I’m sick and tired of being judged for the person who I was. I’m sick and tired for people not realising how bloody difficult it is sometimes. Maybe I do have an anger problem, maybe that’s reflected in how much effort I have to go to in order to control myself, but am I actually a violent or angry person? Only when I’m pushed that far, and even then do I seldom act upon it.

If someone else were to react to a situation such as I did, it wouldn’t be held against them, nor would it be the subject of continual comical value, when in fact it’s not funny. Why is it then, every time I react, or defend myself then, is it made into this huge deal?

Even worse is that he doesn’t actually realise how horrible it is to hear what he has to say. He’s oblivious to everything beyond his own emotional capacities (which, as much as I have tried to like, and befriend, are somewhat lacking), and he doesn’t seem to realise how hurtful it is to hear those things.

I’m not perfect, and nobody else is, but being constantly compared and likened to the person who I have tried so hard to dismantle, to remove from myself, and to avoid, a loathsome, angry and truly violent being; when all I ever try to do is be the happier, calmer, and more likeable person I am now, it’s hard.

But as ever it seems to be a case of “Whatever someone else does is fine, but if you do it, hell is going to rain down upon you”, and to be perfectly honest, I’m fucking fed-up of it.

See, a few weeks ago, whilst out celebrating a Birthday I not only got drunk, I also managed to get myself into a situation somewhat similar to a small fight. The fight, as I mentioned before occurred between Jenny and I, whilst I was arguing with her Girlfriend; they went off home and left the rest of the group to enjoy the rest of the night.

To my own peril though, I continued to drink alcohol. I thought this was a brilliant idea; it would suppress the bad memories from this incident, and increase my ability to not be so with-holding, thus meaning I could have more fun.

Sadly though, I didn’t pull. Well, I did manage to resurge an old like feeling for a friend of mine – who by the way is utterly beautiful. But I also managed to let my guard down too much.

See, generally speaking I consider myself a good liar; well at least when I want to lie. If I don’t want to lie, and especially if I am under the influence of alcohol my ability to refuse giving out information I don’t want others to know, and to deny claims which are extremely true with my normally stern and convincingly straight face, completely diminishes. So when asked by my friend “Do you fancy Jenny?” and I unconvincingly smirked a drunken “No” back in his direction, all of his prior assumptions and thoughts had been instantly validated.

I remember we then engaged in a short conversation about her, where I also managed to disclose that I have “liked her for years”. I hoped following this conversation, considering he was very drunk, that there might be the chance he would forget about this little gem of information he had attained. Needless to say, he hasn’t.

Jenny and I following on from our little “fight” are now fine. It’s hard to speak her due to the Girlfriend, she has this horrible ability to make any situation that she is present in, extremely uncomfortable for everyone else. But despite our lack of conversation over the past week it didn’t stop her squeezing my bum on two separate occasions whilst she hugged me.

But now that my friend is aware of my liking for her, every time she is near he glares at me; or for example earlier, making comments about her in front of other friends. It makes things very awkward and certainly uncomfortable to say the least. I am relatively concerned he might say something, I have a feeling that Jenny’s Girlfriend has an inkling about my liking for Jenny; although I am not sure if she is aware of any of the goings-on between us. I really don’t want any thought she may or may not have stimulated by anything my dear ol’ friend might have to say or insinuate.