Kiss This: Part 1
Author's note: I really wanted to share my story and teach others the misconceptions they go through in their... Show full author's note »
The FeelsAlthough I’d like to say that rebelling is fun, which it kind of is, there’s more to it than that. I may have missed a few parts by telling you details into my education, but there’s much more. Let’s start from where I started fresh in 7th grade.
Home life here wasn’t as easy as I’d thought it to be. When people started making fun of the way that I dressed, I went to my sister because, so far, she’d had two years in high school, and a wicked fashion sense. Of course, I didn’t go directly to her, I went to her room. At the time, I thought it was a good idea. But by the time she found out, it had become a habit, and it made her furious. I don’t know why, but it didn’t really affect me. I mean…I cared about my sister and what she thought, I just never thought this would happen. I don’t know.
The worst part was when picture day came. She thought I was wearing her leggings, so she tore my room apart; and I had to clean it up. She would threaten me, she would attempt to beat me up; it was bad. But I continued with taking clothes. At first, I fit them, and then, as I became more insecure, I gained a lot of weight, and I would stretch out her clothes. I guess I kind of felt bad; seeing her pretty clothes that looked so good on her, get ruined, but I just didn’t feel anything. This continued on for about two more school years.
Life at home wasn’t just miserable in this sense, I also began fighting with my mom and dad. I threw temper tantrums if I didn’t get my way, I had my phone taken away for years, and I don’t know why, but this affected Isabella. I guess that started when I got OSS from school for a really bad reason. I lost a lot of friends for that reason, and, especially, trust. But I’ll tell you about that later.
Sibling rivalry, I hear, is healthy. I became really depressed. I didn’t want to go home sometimes. And sometimes, I compensated this for making relationships for myself (AKA, bf/gf). My first “relationship” was a flirtationship between me and a guy I’ve never met; Alex Wall. Nothing special about his name, and nothing special about his game, either. I guess the only thing keeping us together was the sneakiness of it. Eventually, flirting became a much bigger problem for my parents to handle because suddenly, our innocence was in risk. We began a promiscuous relationship, and throughout it, I realized it was a big problem. I’ve had multiple opportunities to redevelop my trust with my parents, but instead, I’ve had multiple opportunities to have a phone taken away. And, sorry Alex, but you weren’t the only one I did this to.
I think I was at a time of mental maturity, because then I met Oliver and Andrei. They were stepbrothers. Cute stepbrothers. Oliver was already in a relationship by the time I actually wanted one with him. So then, I went out with Andrei. I can’t tell whether I actually liked him or not, or whether I was just using him, but I did end up having my first kiss with him. It wasn’t…what I expected. It was both of ours, so it was pretty messy. Andrei and I ended roughly around three and a half months. Mostly because I was falling for Oliver behind his back, and Oliver was falling for me too. So, I did what most girls would do: cry after I broke up with him. Not so smooth. It was a week after Christmas.
After Andrei, it wasn’t Oliver. My next, actual, relationship was in eighth grade where I met a boy named James Dearnley at my friend Madison’s birthday party. James and I clicked. And I mean, CLICKED. One boy before Patrick, this was THE ONE I LOVED. We bonded over Star Wars, music, friends, interests, EVERYTHING. Plus, HE WAS HOT. He was also a grade below me from being held back and kicked out of school for punching his principal in the face. The part that I loved the most of, was his family. And they loved me back. Not his sister though. Grace was a mean girl. Mean to her friends, mean to James, and rude. I knew she was bad news. I mean, it takes a b**** to know a b****.