The Hellhole That Was Year Six

I was popular in Year Six. Or so I was told. Everybody kept reassuring me that it was OK, that yes, I did have friends, and I was going to be alright.

It got to the point where I didn't even tell them if I was sad because I knew that they would get annoyed. Frustrated. Exasperated. They would tell me I was smart, I was pretty, I was popular, I was funny.

I was most definitely not OK. I was weighing myself no less than three times a day: shocked when the numbers increased and elated when they shot down again in the morning. I was planning to run away, I was planning to die soon because I told myself that nobody would miss me. But I knew that I couldn't hurt myself - it would scar, it would burn, it would ache for decades afterwards, a horrible reminder of past trauma. I told myself I was fat, ugly, boring, stupid, crazy.

This was all because I didn't value myself as I valued my friends. I didn't think that I was as good as them because they all walked about in groups, laughing at silly jokes with punchlines that didn't make sense to me. Our year was built on fickle friendships and drama interwoven between eight pubescent girls, and it annoyed me somewhat.

Annoyed me that I didn't get them, that I couldn't cartwheel like them, or gossip like them, or stay on the subject of a conversation like them. I started to put a mental barrier between my abilities and theirs. I got jealous, I started comparing myself to them. "They have prettier hair/longer legs/ a sexier smile."

I based my entire merit on these factors: my beauty, my weight, my popularity and how many boys were crushing on me. To me, the latter statistic seemed woefully small. I beat myself up about that. A lot.

I convinced myself that I needed somebody to love me to disguise the fact that I didn't love myself. When I realised that two boys out of the ten in my class liked me, I reminded myself that crushes are fickle beasts and I had to keep on being better in order to be loved.

When one of the boys - who I was essentially using to build up my diminishing stockpile of self-esteem - told me he liked me because I was funny, I told myself that I had to be funnier. That he wouldn't like me if I had days when being funny just wasn't in my arsenal. That without my fleeting humour, I was essentially nothing.

Then, my two best school friends developed crushes on each other, just as my birthday rolled around. Said friends were the chosen guests to my eleventh birthday party. I'd spent the previous day making a The Fault In Our Stars Cake with clouds and the words "OKAY? OKAY." written in black and white fondant icing. We played cricket in the park and slid down the ramps in the skatepark.

It was an awesome day, though the sense that I was nothing but a third wheel lingered in my ears, on my tongue - I could even see it with my eyes.

For my birthday, I got a Windows laptop. I used this to watch Memeulous and to search up competitions so that I could compare myself to Britain's Got Talent contestants and wonder if I'd ever be as good as them. I became addicted to ambition and screens.

In conclusion: I was a mess. Not even a hot one. I weighed myself way too much and was woefully insecure. It wasn't good for me. My article is not intended for your pity, but for you to know that if this was, or is, you, you are not alone. Because I am here for you

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