This has been one of my worst weeks since the beginning of eighth grade. I wish I could graduate middle school already, or stay home, or move halfway around the world and stay there forever, or just disappear.
I feel like so many things happened at once that if I try to explain them, everything will come out in a jumble of words and emotions. But I’ll try my best to untangle my feelings and turn them into readable sentences.
I guess you could say that my melancholy started when someone close to me told me I should make more of an effort to fit in at school. That took me by surprise, especially coming from this person, who I thought accepted me for who I am, even if I don’t necessarily like the same things that most of our classmates do. This “friend” explained that I should stop “living in the past” by listening to old music or what have you. But what’s wrong with liking stuff from the past? Are people supposed to stop listening to classical music and reading Jane Austen because those things are out-of-date? And anyway, why should what I choose to read or watch or listen to annoy anyone else?
Then some other people I’m close to gave me some really negative feedback on my writing, including these diary entries. I love writing. It’s important to me. Corny as it sounds, creating characters and plots and stanzas has been an essential part of my identity and my life for as long as I can remember. And while I’ve never claimed to be some kind of literary virtuoso, I’ve always enjoyed the act of writing. Until this week, when all the criticism I got sent me into a really bad spiral of self-doubt: Is my writing really bad? Were my friends and family lying when they praised things I’d written? I haven’t been able to write anything since then except this diary and a few other non-optional pieces; just the thought of writing makes me feel sick, so I’m trying not to think about it.
The grand finale to the week was some weirdness with a close friend that left me feeling sad and confused. I can’t elaborate here, because she reads my Rookie diary, but I have a feeling that there may be a bit of hatred directed toward me.
I can’t even tell you how excited I felt on Friday when it was time to go home. ♦