A Build Up To Mental Destruction This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

June 1, 2010
By , Western Springs, IL
1. My mom told me she would kick his butt.

“You’re fat!” He said as I straightened my eye brows and stuck my tongue back in my mouth.

I probably should tell the teacher on him but I don’t want to be a tattle-tell. I think I am supposed to just walk away, that is what my mom told me to do. OK, I’ll just do that cause’ I’m not fat, I think.

2. Hiding is the best answer.

I can feel the eyes piercing my body as I race to take off my shirt. A little too fast, my arm gets stuck in the neck hole and now I just look like an idiot. A half naked idiot. I remember in elementary school when I all I had to do was put on my gym shoes. Now I have hundreds of people staring at me as I undress. Isn’t this illegal or something?

I squeeze myself up against my locker to hopefully hide as much skin as possible. Pulling my gray gym shirt down to cover my flower underwear. Which reminds me, I need better undergarments. This plan gives me enough coverage until I get on the obnoxious red, too short, shorts. People should thank me for sparing their eyes from my body.

3. In high school things should change.

His arm spread out over her shoulders. My eyes are glued to the TV. I think this movie is about a girl that died, holds a grudge, and is killing people. Probably, because it is called The Grudge, but who knows? I can hear the sound of her scooting closer and closer to him with every fake scream of terror. She is a pro at this guy stuff. It must be a pretty girl thing. That’s why I can barely talk to guys or maybe that’s why they barely talk to me. Whatever, all I know is that I like this guy that is all over my friend and, well, he is all over my friend. I’m glad I am good at pretending to be happy for her. Her first eight boyfriends gave me good practice.

My mom told me a story once about her and one of her best friends. My mom was the “ugly” one and her friend was pretty, always surrounded by boys. I guess my mom must have hit puberty then, because her freshman year all of the sudden she was getting all the guys and her friend had none. It is probably bad to wish this would happen to me and Gabby, but let’s just say my birthday candles made me wish it.

4. I had a boyfriend.

It was the first week of my life I’ve ever felt pretty.

5. It’s official.

The paper on the doctor’s bed makes that crackle noise as I sit down. I hate that noise. In fact, I hate the doctor all together.

The nurse walks in. She looks nice enough.

“We are just going to have to weigh you really quick.” She no longer is nice.

She walks me to the death trap and I take off my shoes. The frigid metal freezes my toes. I clench my hands into fists as she moves around the little knobs trying to find that magic number. Anxiety rushes up my spine to my forehead where I am already breaking a sweat. Finally she finds that number and I’m not too shocked. I was figuring it would be a lot worse.

After a couple of minutes of sitting on the irritating paper, the doctor walks in. His cheek bones look like they are about to pop out of his skin; the child molester look. He walks right to his paper lined desk and sits in his squeaky swivel chair.

“Allison, I am a little concerned with your BMI, which stands for Body Mass Index,” Yes I know what it means moron. “It is very close to the overweight line. Maybe you should try exercising and eating better.”

Like I haven’t tried a diet already. I just failed all the dozen times I’ve tried, just like I fail at almost everything.

6. I’m good at not showing the inside on the outside.

“You look so pretty in that dress!” She’s lying.

“Thanks! You too.” I smile back.

7. I hate using the word depressed.

How to Talk to Teenagers, Causes of Depression, Easy Solutions. I wonder if this lady has ever read any of those book that are collecting dust. Maybe she is writing a book of her own, because her pen hasn’t stopped moving since my mouth started spilling my secrets. I would like to know what her little book contains. Maybe it’s documentation that I am another statistic, another teen that has fallen to the depths of society. I don’t want my book to end in a dismal escape. In fact, I would like it to end in complete and utter bliss. Never again caring about who thinks what. Making the smile on my face real. Though, first I have to pull out the roots of my issues. Which is the severe self consciousness that lingers inside my skull, at least that is what my therapist said. Though, how I go about yanking out that root, I still do not know.





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