I Hate Being Sixteen (standard:non fiction, 294 words)
Author: JM	Added: Oct 20 2001	Views/Reads: 3560/1	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I really do hate being sixteen... this type of crap comes out and the truth of it scares me.

It goes on all day. 

All day. 

There’s no relief. It’s not like anyone’s intentionally doing anything
to make me feel uncomfortable - they just do. 

It’s not really their fault at all. I know that it’s just psychological,
that I don’t have to feel like that if I really don’t want to. But it’s 
the LOOKS they give me. Maybe they’re not obvious looks, but I can tell 
what they’re thinking. 

And once again, I tell myself I’m being stupid. They’re probably not
thinking that at all. They probably don’t even notice me. It’s just my 
imagination working overtime again. 

Whatever it is, I know it makes me feel awful. I get myself into this
mindframe, and my self-esteem goes down, down, down, until it’s dashed 
on the rocks at the bottom. 

It’s like a disease, really. A virus or something. A virus with only one
cure. 

Home. 

Most people my age stay away from home as much as possible. It’s too
‘uncool’ to hide in your room all day. But hiding in my room is really 
all that I have. Without home, what would there be? 

More people. People I don’t know, people who give me funny looks and
think mean things. So I hide. I hide away from the world. And I write. 

I write songs, and poems, and short stories, and I start novels that
will take another twenty years to finish. Even if nobody ever reads 
them, at least the pen and the paper know how I feel. They understand 
the pain, the depression, the self-degradation. They almost embrace it, 
because they know that the worse it is, the more words come out. 

They love it. 

They love me. 

My only friends - home, the pen and the paper.


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