Some Hopes are there to Remain Unfulfilled

I realised after I posted my blog yesterday that I was basically just ranting about how lazy I am. I told this to Andy who said I should write about things I feel deeply about. That would be great if I knew what those things were.

I guess I feel deeply about achieving something in my life. I don’t know exactly how I’m supposed to that now... I’d feel different about things if I was still living on the Gold Coast.

Now, ever since I was little I’ve always been the... nerdier kid, I guess you would say. I loved reading and writing where my sister liked makeup and boys. I envy that part about my sister because she just goes out there and does stuff and experiences life... and does things I wish I was confident enough to do.

Sure, she’s done stupid things like shoplifting and smoking but in ways she is so much more mature than me, even if she is thirteen. I feel like I missed out on so much because of the people I hung out with (or didn’t hang out with) and the things I chose to do instead of hanging out with friends on the weekend. I’ve never really had a best friend since New Zealand.

Last year... before I found out I was moving my life was pretty alright. Sure, the guy I liked didn’t like me... and he already had a girlfriend. To be honest, a lot of people didn’t like me. But I didn’t really care. The people I was friends with were important to me and for once weren’t backstabbing bitches that I stayed friends with even though I knew they didn’t actually like me.

I’ve moved around my whole life. Just when I felt like I had a constant in my life we’d pick up and move again, just because it was what my mum wanted to do. I wonder if she ever thought about us for once. Like “Hey, my daughter went to three different primary schools. She’s been at the same high school for all her high school years. Maybe it would be better for her if she stayed and finished her last year of high school.” But no, as usual my mum only thinks about herself.

I don’t know how she can accuse me of being self absorbed. All of the places we’ve moved to over the years have been because of her pointless, stupid relationships. I think she felt glad that we were moving to Melbourne and I’d have to repeat year eleven because according to her, I’m not mature enough to leave school.

I’m not going to lie; I wanted to move to Melbourne because I thought it would be better. I tell people I’m from the Gold Coast and they’re like “WHY did you move here!?” I feel like saying “Coz my mum’s a bitch,” but I answer with the programmed response: “Because my mum thought it was a better lifestyle.” Yeah? The only thing different about Melbourne is there’s more bushland and the shopping centres are bigger.

I can’t do year twelve in Melbourne. I have minimal friends in Melbourne. My dad moved to Armidale BECAUSE I moved to Melbourne and I can’t afford to go and see him. I miss him and my baby sister like crazy. I don’t have a boyfriend in Melbourne. I can’t even begin to explain my love life, or lack thereof.

I had a boyfriend. For three crazy weeks of my life, I actually had a boyfriend. I texted him telling him I was moving in three weeks and he texted back asking me out. Talk about the worst timing ever. I saw him a total of once in these three weeks. I was working five days a week while packing up to move. To be honest, I didn’t really know how to have a boyfriend. I still don’t really know. All I know is a part of me wanted to move to Melbourne so I didn’t have to deal with it. It wasn’t until I was actually in a relationship that I realised I didn’t know how to be or act in one. So I moved and we kind of evaporated. I haven’t spoken to him since.

Now, leaving school wasn’t a decision I took lightly. If you ask my mum she’ll say I just did it to rebel and because I knew she didn’t really want me to. I honestly couldn’t be fucked doing year eleven all over again. Last year was one of the hardest years of my school life so far. Year eleven in Melbourne is even harder than that. I know I wouldn’t have been able to put myself through that.

My sister says I dropped out. And yeah, I guess I did. I keep telling myself that I had reason to, because I couldn’t do year twelve in Melbourne, which is true. I just don’t know that now I’ve quit I’ll be able to bring myself to go back.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to go back. I have to go back. I never really liked school. I hated the responsibility it brought, the deadlines and due dates and neverending list of work, assignments and exams. I didn’t deal well with the pressure and just ended up freaking out.

I haven’t told many people that I had this problem. I don’t know if you could call it a mental problem but I don’t want to because it makes it sound like I’m insane. It was basically, when I was really stressed about school and stuff I wouldn’t be able to sleep. So, I’d lie awake for hours on end just driving myself crazy with thoughts about all the work I had to do.

Don’t get me wrong, there are parts of school I liked. I love writing. Ever since I was little I was always the writer. I’d write stories in notebooks or type them up on the computer. I’d write dark and empty poems and eventually enter one in a competition and come second. I was always called upon by my mum to write poems for birthdays. I had something that I was good at.

I was always a little distracted in school. I lost track of how many stories I’d start writing in the back of my notebook instead of doing the work. And then it was the student reporter thing. My work was published in the paper. I was the girl you went to if you’d done something worth writing about because she could get you in the paper. I was the girl loved by English teachers.

In the end it wasn’t enough to make me repeat year eleven. I still want to be a writer. I couldn’t imagine doing anything different. I always held hope that I’d be a published author one day but thought to myself “That’s too hard. Being an author is too difficult an industry.” I don’t know where the idea of being a journalist came from. I guess it seemed sort of glamorous in my adolescent eyes... something worth becoming.

I will finish year twelve... eventually. I will go to university. I know it sounds ridiculous but I really wish I could go to college in America. That’d be my dream. But I think that’s pretty impossible. I’ll put myself through uni, even if it kills me. I don’t want to end up like my mum, whose had so many career changes that I can’t keep track.

I still don’t know if it’s even worth me pursuing writing. I mean, I’ve always thought I was good at it but maybe that’s just me. I’ve hardly accomplished anything when it comes to the “novel” I want to write. My writing isn’t as good as it probably could be. I guess only time will tell.

I hope I didn’t bore you with my sad excuse for a life. But that’s me. I wish things weren’t like that but you don’t always get what you wish for, even when you blow out the candles.

Word to your bookshelf,

Kassi

Number of Days I've Worked Full Time: 34
Books I've Read in 2009: 38
Days Till I Leave for Azkatraz: 73
Days Till I Meet John Green: 25
LOL Convo of the Day:

Mum: Are you premenstrual?
Me: No!
Pete: Nah, she's pre Harry Potter