Honestly

So I’m sitting on the bathroom floor.

Yes, that’s right, sitting on the bathroom floor with the laptop—get this—in my criss-cross, apple-sauce lap. The fans are turned on, masking the sound of keys rapidly being punched. I’m in between the rug and the toilet, my back currently residing directly below the towel rack. My left foot’s asleep and my eyes are red and puffy for crying. But that doesn’t bother me, for no one will disturb me here.

I don’t have a bathroom fetish, in case that’s what you’re wondering. The bathroom is not some sacred room to me or any other nonsense, but honestly, it’s the only room in the house with a lock built in, so it’s a guarantee that no one will be able to just barge in.

I got into an argument with my mother. What the argument was, it’s not important. It was just another one. This is why I dislike breaks. The time I spend with my mother is like going on a roller coaster: if you do it every once and a while, it’s nice, but if you go on the roller coaster too long or too often, you get sick.

Anyway, so I got into an argument. The outcome was me, here obviously, but her last words I will never forget: “If you would just put aside your stubborness and anger, then you won’t get screwed next time.”

I didn’t say anything—it’s best not to when dealing with her—and went upstairs in my room. There, I turned the words over in my mind and found, unsurprisingly, she was right. As always.

I could feel the tears welling up at the sense of self-loathing that seemed to wash over my body and before I knew it, I grabbed my laptop and bolted to the bathroom across the hall.

I am too stubborn. And proud. I’m fat, too. Lazy. Bitchy. Obnoxious. Ugly.

I let my pride get in the way of my common sense. When I’m angry and stubborn, I do things I normally wouldn’t do. I am twenty pounds overweight and am too lazy to do anything about it. I say mean (but true) things about my teachers and I don’t feel bad. I never know when to shut up. My hair and skin never act the way I want them to. I say weird things. Boys don’t like me. And honestly, I haven’t like myself in a long time either.

I want to change, but my mouth acts before my brain and there I go again. My mouth gets me laughs, but it gets me the reputation of a witty bitch. A lot of days I don’t care. Today I don’t want to care. But I do.

I took a good long look in the mirror today. An oval face, widening at the cheeks, thining until it reaches my chin. My mouth is drawn into a thin line, the gloss long worn off. A nose too big for my face, red from crying, is smack in the middle, and pretty brown eyes with spiked eyelashes glare defiantly back at me, though they’re red, too.

Maybe I will change. Maybe tomorrow morning when I’m at school, I won’t. But honestly, I’ll never know until I try, and just want to be me again.

Written: 20 April