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Great Writing - Home > Extended > Lorraine Part 2
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Extended Work
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| Lorraine Part 2 | |
| By amy456 | ||||||||
| 30 June 2006 | ||||||||
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This is Megan's side. There's no dialogue, so I'm a bit worried that it might be boring. Who are your sympathies with now - Megan, or Lorraine? Megan’s diary Hey Diary, Well. Here I am. It’s me, Megan. Bet you’ve been wondering where I’ve been? I am so weird. You’re not even real. The fact of the matter is that I have no friends, and never will have. You, dear diary, are my one and only friend in the entire world. I am eighteen years old. I know that mum and dad blame me, especially dad. I see the way he looks at me sometimes. It’s sort of accusing, like he’s saying, “Don’t you think your mother has enough on her plate, young lady?” Everybody has sympathy for her. But nobody has any for me. However, I learnt pretty early on that life sure as hell isn’t fair, and most likely, if you’re anything like me, you’ve spent all your years watching other people be crowned with happiness, success and love, while you spend your nights crying into your pillow. Ok, pretty cliché, huh? The problem is that if a teenager is unhappy, nobody takes you seriously. You just get lumped in the ‘teen angst’ category and people, if they even bother to listen to your problems at all, treat them with such patronising, sarcastic attention that I can’t bear it. They think, well, she’s eighteen years old, what can you expect. Every teenager has identity issues, spots, mood swings, and boyfriend troubles. WRONG!!! I actually have pretty decent skin. Identity issues? Maybe. Mood swings? Not really, they don’t actually swing, I’ll admit that I’m pretty much in a constant bad mood. Boyfriend troubles? FAT CHANCE, I should be so lucky!! I’ll tell you a secret if you like. I have never kissed a guy. That’s right. I’m eighteen years old. Actually, I shouldn’t even be starting with this sort of stuff. It makes me seem really shallow, and even the boyfriend thing, I can kinda understand people thinking that’s not really a big deal. I’d actually be inclined to agree. In the grand scheme of things, it’s really not that important, even to me. In fact, it doesn’t really bother me that much at all, which sort of puzzles me why I’d even bother to mention it. Now the friends thing, I can’t pretend that that’s not more of an issue. I said earlier I had no friends, and that’s not an exaggeration. Oh dear, just thinking about it makes me start crying. It’s sort of my own fault, and I will readily admit that, to understate things, I’m ‘a bit of a bitch’. However, I still maintain that I only became a bitch after I went three years with no one even bothering to speak to me, and in the end it just drove me crazy, and it got to the point where I would do or say anything just to provoke a reaction from someone, so that I could be sure that I existed. If you go too long without any attention, you start to lose yourself a bit. You go to such extreme lengths just to attract a bit of notice, and you get off on it, and after a while it stops being habit and becomes actually who you are, only you realise that deep down that’s not who you are – only you’re not sure just who you are any more. Like me, for instance, I was a really quiet person and was ignored, and so I started saying really random, off-the-wall stuff, and it didn’t make me any friends, but it got people talking to me, even if it was only “Shut up, Megan” or “Mind your own business”. It was interaction, and even that is better than nothing. I’m making a right hash of this, aren’t I? I should have known I was an idiot to even think I could ever make anyone else understand. If I really want to feel like I can talk to you like how I’d imagine a best friend to be, then I guess I should tell you everything. OK. Here goes nothing. But you must swear on your mother never to tell a living soul. I AM A DEFORMED FREAK. Unfortunately, that’s no lie. Really it’s not. I wish to God it was; oh, how I wish! I remember being thirteen, fourteen years old, back when I think I still believed in magic – not like witches and stuff, but general fairytale things like that if you were a good person things always worked out for you in the end. And I would try so hard. At night I would sob and groan and pray to God to fix me and make me normal. But five years later, and here I am, as deformed and ugly as ever. You want to know what it is? I thought so. Well, the plain fact of the matter is that I only have one breast. I have never told anyone. I have not gone to the doctor. I guess I haven’t wanted to admit it, even to myself, and until last year I pretty much didn’t think about it that much, aside from the occasional crying and praying sessions. But they were exhausting, and as I realised their futileness, they became few and far between. I realised that there was nothing, and nobody, that could help me. Can you even imagine what that was like? Eleven years old, and I had to deal with that all by myself. How could I tell anyone? They’d think I was a freak. I am a freak, anyway, in more ways than one. But let me ask you, how could I have a boyfriend? In many ways, it’s a blessing that I don’t have one. How could I ever get intimate with anybody? It was easier to cover up and stay at home and indulge my misery. I was lucky in that I didn’t have any friends anyway, so how could I know what I was missing? All these things are why I can’t take people judging me. They know **** all, and that includes mum and dad – especially them, in fact. And it’s why I can’t feel sympathy for my mother. In fact, I despise her. She knows nothing of me or my life, or what I suffer. Has she, at fifteen, ever felt desperate to end it all? I thought not. And this autumn it’s only going to get even worse. I’m supposed to be going to university – assuming I’m even going to get in, which appears extremely doubtful at the moment. I had so much to think about during the exams, that they sort of went badly. Perhaps subconsciously I even intended to fail. It would sure save me a lot of problems. And she wonders why I can’t be ****ed to get out of bed!!!! What is there to live for, I ask? Sod this, I’m going back to bed. Sweet dreams, diary. Megan
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