I am still learning, about myself, about others and the world I inhabit and often aimlessly crash about in. I am still learning and that is ok, despite others saying it isn’t, despite others saying I should know better by now. Well, the matter of the fact is, I don’t, not right now, not yet and maybe not for some time but I am working on it.
I won’t lie to you, a part of me still believes having a blog, is for lack of a better term, a mark of a true douche bag. So, what does that make me? Part douche bag? An easy yes. In the pursuit of honesty, who isn’t a douche bag to some small degree in one way or another? Call me self-depreciating, but I think it’s delusional to think otherwise. Not everyone is going to love or even like you, and that’s okay.
To my dearest and sincerest Auckland, we may have said our goodbyes, but you live in my veins, my thoughts, and my heart. I love you, I always have and I always will.
To an old, true and dear friend,
You are brilliant, albeit a little crazy from time to time but who isn’t. You love fiercely and with your whole heart, but you forget to love one very important person, yourself. Stop being so hard on yourself. You don’t deserve it.
The space between being a child and thinking you are more than that is incredibly fragile. I don’t remember when the way boys looked at me outweighed how I looked at myself, but it must’ve been in a moment fleeting faster than a blink.
I lied about losing my virginity for the longest time. I felt an almost insurmountable level of shame because I had sex before sixteen. Oh, the absolute horror… yet, also not so uncommon. Neither one of us knew what we were doing, I think the fact that we both thought we had sex before we actually had sex, kind of says it all. I was deflowered and to be honest, I felt devalued. It wasn’t some magical moment, it was haphazard, awkward and incredibly rushed as we both tried to act like we knew what we were doing.
I think most people have that person that made them feel like, maybe they were everything and absolutely nothing at the same time. I did. On paper, we were nothing, but in between the lines, we could have been everything. For the longest time, I couldn’t shake him. I romanticised him when in truth there was nothing romantic between us except the story I made out of our failures. He will never know how many times my mind wandered to him and I will never know if I ever crossed his.
I was sixteen going on seventeen when I became fascinated with the idea of ‘Coming of Age.’ How conveniently and painfully predictable. The concept consumed me, to the point where I based my high school English assignment around the idea, filling my already riddled mind with more tales and tribulations of teenagers easing into adulthood. Pause, easing probably isn’t the right word, sometimes you crash into it head first without any warning, maybe you glide wondering what all the fuss was about or what I have kind of gathered at twenty-four going on twenty-five, sometimes you don’t reach adulthood, even when you thought you had.