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Extended Work
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| Lorraine part 10 | |
| By amy456 | ||||||
| 07 July 2006 | ||||||
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THIS PIECE CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE WHICH SOME MAY FIND OFFENSIVE Megan’s diary Today, dear diary, I feel like shit. Today, Thursday July 6th, is the day of my sixth form prom. I’m not going, obviously. At this exact moment in time they are probably all getting into the coach in their gorgeous strapless floaty dresses. I saw the pictures from the year eleven prom and they all looked fantastic. I missed that one, too, but for some reason it didn’t bother me so much. Oh God, why me? I am sitting here writing to you and it somehow doesn’t feel real. At moments like these I feel so remote from everyone – mum, dad, people at school. It is so, so unfair. I hate myself. I sit at home instead, in my bedroom, and cry, while they dance, giggle and sip wine. Nothing helps. I’m supposed to be starting uni in September and there will be many more occasions like this, won’t there? There’s no point pretending; I may just as well get used to it. It’s hard with something like this, because how do I know what might have been, had I not been afflicted? Let me explain. How much of a difference does my problem really make? Say I’d been normal. Would I have gone to the prom and sat on my own in a corner and been ignored by people and still have looked really ugly. Or would I have gone in a stunning dress and had a brilliant time with loads of friends? How much more confidence would I have had? How many friends? How many boyfriends? For that matter, how many dresses? I ache to wear a dress. A proper dress, that you would wear to such an occasion as this. I sometimes think that if I could just have one evening, or maybe even one hour, of being normal, I would be happy forever. Because I was eleven when my problem became an issue, I can’t really remember not having it. I lost my normal body before I was even able to appreciate it. Besides, you can’t really wear cocktail dresses or ball gowns when you’re ten or under. It gets harder as the years pass. If I’d known when I was thirteen that I’d still be suffering at eighteen, I would have choked. I was so sure that eventually it was something that would sort itself out. I know now it’s not going to go away. I have wasted myself totally. At times like this, I take a melancholy pleasure in reading some accounts of people like me which I printed off the internet. I read them and cry and ache to meet them so that we could just cry together. People on the outside can never understand. For a start, they don’t even believe you. They don’t realise the lengths people will go to hide something like this, this shameful, humiliating secret. But to prove that I’m not being melodramatic about my feelings, I will copy down some of the passages, and not just the most poignant ones either. Beware! These are genuine words that women like me have used to describe their very real experiences. “I have always felt like a freak. My mother and sister grew up having no problems with their bodies and have double Ds. I hate when I walk into a store and shop for bras or t-shirts and I can’t get the cute bras, or tight shirts that everyone else has. I am so conscious of my breasts that I wear two bras to make it look normal, but it still shows. I just want to be normal, and not afraid to wear the tight shirts, or have a boyfriend. I just want answers, and I wish some one could help me because I am afraid to tell anyone even my sister for fear of being thought of as a freak.” This is the one that always gets me: “Even after surgery I was deformed. So I feel. I have spent my whole life trying to look like a normal woman and I feel it is impossible. Of course no one else can understand our feelings. I know it could be worse, much! I now have a daughter who was born with a syndrome in which she has a chance of asymmetrical growth of any body parts. Beckwith-Wiedemann Syndrome. I have such a fear that she too will endure this awful disfigurement. I feel as though this syndrome is my fault. No one knows it is hereditary or genetic for her syndrome. She was born with her intestines on the outside and an enlarged tongue. She is so smart and beautiful. I hope and pray she never has to hide or feel like a freak as I have and do. All my life I have felt different in a negative way. I have covered my body since teenage times. Every day I think of how awful I look and feel. I have an eating disorder (binge eating) and other problems that all stem to this. I have never gotten married. I do not think someone would love me instead of someone without a deformed body.” How dare somebody read something like that, and have the fucking audacity to claim that the problem is far-stretched and would have been noticed if it existed? Fuck them!!! Fuck them a thousand times!! I hope they rot in hell, them and their fucking ignorance, and their stupid fucking opinions that just show what a fucking ignoramus they are. Of course it’s all psychological. My fucking arse!!!! I wish it were. According to some people, I am living in some sick fantasy land where I choose for some strange, inexplicable reason, to decide to have a problem and miss out on years of swimming, proms, parties, weddings, being a bridesmaid, having a boyfriend, and feeling normal. I can honestly claim that this diary is written from life. Every word in it is real. Believe it or not. It’s up to you. I don’t care any more. I don’t care about anything any more. I’m going to bed. Megan
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