my hidden sadness
2001-07-08 12:20:42 (UTC)

Life and its adversity

I'm a first-timer in this online diary writing, but typing
up my feelings has always been a pet hobby for me. I never
had a dog-eared little notebook with scribbles and
doodles. My emotional outlet has been for my few years, a
document on a computer. Impersonal? Yes. Useless?
Definitely not.
I can't use my real name in this, so I've invented one for
times of self mercy.
Instead of being ********** ***** ******(censored), I'll
be, to you at least, Angelina Lee Bridges. The rest of me
is real though, my hopes, my fears, my secrets. My hometown
is also censored, so I'll rename it to Eden Hills,
Australia. Oh, the Australia part is real. I'm 14 years
old, just old enough to get a job, and though sometimes I
feel I know it all, deep down, there is this wisened voice
that says "Angel, you think you got it, but you know you
don't". When I say I'm tall, blonde and very slim, you'd
immediately think either a) I'm lying or b) I'm beautiful.
The fact of the matter is, it's neither. Yes it's true, I
have light blonde hair, I'm 5'9" and a size 8. But like any
teenage girl, I am not happy with my looks. In fact, my
looks are the reason I need a diary.
Because I have pimples, and I hear you saying "oh that's
nothing" and "oh that's so superficial" and I agree with
you. In theory, pimples are just tiny little eruptions now
and again. In reality, they are esteem-draining,
humiliating, tear-summoning infections ALL OVER MY FACE.
Where I differ from most others, is that when I say I have
pimples all over my face, I'm telling the truth. I get
large, red, angry pimples all over my skin. I have
blackheads in my t-zone. I hate my face. Sometimes I get
so dramatically infuriated with it I just break down and
cry. The sadness of all this is, nobody knows.
When I cry, I stifle my sobs with a pillow. I close my
eyes tight to stop the tears. I sit for hours, it seems,
waiting for that redness to leave from my eyes. My family
doesn't know. A few months back, I had a falling out with
a friend. I'll call her Tiffany. Tiff is not tall and
slim, but she is absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. She
has 100% clear skin, piercing blue eyes, an individual
smile and blonde hair (artificial, but it still adds to the
whole look). She wears makeup every day and frets over even
a tiny, skin coloured bump that she calls a pimple. She
has a more comfortable body weight than I, a little plumper
than she'd like, but the guys all love her anyway. She's
the type of girl who gives blondes a bad name, as she is
(although this is cruel) a complete ditz. She is my
friend, she is sweet, but she can be so damn dizzy, and
sometimes conceited and self-centered. I love/hate her...
I could never decide, but this one particular instance, she
sent a photograph of me over the internet to some guys in a
nearby town. These guys I had been flirting with. I knew
one of them, who I had loved since forever (and still do!),
who I'll call Scott. Anyway, when Scott moved to Green
Valley (fake townname there), he took with him nothing but
praise about me. So all the GV guys thought I was some
beautiful girl that I am not. So naturally, when one guy,
who I'd gotten particularly close to, told me that Tiff had
tried to send him a photo of us Eden Hills girls, I
completely freaked at her. Of all the insensitive things
to do, she sent a picture (a terrible picture at that) to
these guys who I had been having so much fun teasing with
the idea that I was beautiful, without telling me, asking
me, or even considering me. All she cared about was that
it was a good picture of her. At least, that's what I think.
So I sent her a furious email demanding why she would do
that, and she sent one back saying "but you looked so much
better than me". That was a lie, and we both knew it. I
might not ever be able to prove her intentions, but we both
know, though we never say it, that she is far more
beautiful than me. I have pale skin, blonde eyebrows,
blonde lashes (a drawback to being a true blonde) and
scarlet dots scattered all over my face, back, and even my
thighs a little now. So naturally it aggravates me
immensely for someone to lie so blatantly to my face. It
was as good as telling me that I was a pizza-face. So I
blew up. I went bezerk, telling her all of her faults in
what was the single most steamingly abusive letter I have
ever written someone.
She wrote back a bitchin' letter of her own, avoiding all
topics of my looks, but outlining one of our friends hating
me, my unbearable bitchiness, my back stabbing nature and
me just being a generally awful excuse for a human being.
What she got next really got her straight. The aftermath
of my anger was a wave of self pity, and boy did she cop it
sweet. I told her all about how I hate myself more and
more every day. I told her about how being always outshined
by my beautiful friends tore me apart, especially when I
always have to be outshined at home by my stunningly
beautiful older sister on top of everything. LAstly, I told
her I hoped she was real f***ing proud of herself. If
there was one thing to hold on to before that kept me
alive, it was my personality. And now, thanks to her cruel
and unretractable words, I have nothing. No looks, no
personality. Guys don't love me, girls don't like me and
the only thing I have left is myself.
For the benefit of the mood for this entry, I'd like to let
the reader know that yes, I am finding it hard to write
this with tears streaming down my face and clogging my
vision. But I'll go on. I have to get this out.
I'm sick of being inside this body. I don't want to be Miss
Popularity like Tiffany, or my sister. I don't want to be
Beauty of the Year like Tiffany, or my sister. I just want
to have some kind of assurance that I'm not an awful
person. I find that in diary writing. In a few minutes,
this emotional episode will be over for me for tonight, but
how long will it be before it resurfaces? I don't know. I
probably need counselling. I probably need professional
So, I hear you ask, if I could turn back time, would I
change the fact that Tiff knows the deepest secret of my
life? The answer is flat no. That last, heart wrenching
email was the best written piece I have ever accomplished.
And in some ways, it soothes me to know that there is one
person who knows my pain. That I am not truly alone.
The contents of my soul lie in that email, and because
Tiff's hotmail account password is pretty widespread, I
asked her kindly, when the whole thing blew over, to delete
it. I feel a searing pain of defiance when she says "Angel,
you are pretty. I wish I looked like you". Despite a basic
gratefullness for her words of attempted comfort, I feel
more like I am being lied to, to my face. Like telling a
skunk that it is as graceful and elegant as an Arabian
horse. Mixed feelings, mixed thoughts.
That is all for tonight
Love, Angel xoxoxo