It was nearly two in the morning and any aspect of direction in my life had completely disappeared. I laid on my stomach, splayed out on my bed, numb. There were 11 unread messages on my phone and I did not to want to respond to any of them. An idea to throw it out the window crossed my mind for a fleeting moment before I regained sanity.

Nothing had specifically gone wrong that night. It was actually above average, we had been able to make plans and go out with no problems. I talked to cute boys and looked pretty decent in pictures and didn't get horribly drunk, my friends held their own as well. On paper, it was simply another night that would eventually get blended into a general category of "high school parties". It was not noteworthy.

And yet it was 1:57 am. I was still lying awake in the dark with bloodshot eyes and makeup remnants in tear streaks down my face. music blasting in my ears, but I heard it, I did not listen. The only thing I could think of was "tu me manques", which is french for "I miss you" - only they word it so it literally means "you are missing from me", which I find to be absolutely beautiful. And it's one of those quotes that people devote a Tumblr to, a classic angsty teenage girl line that litters tweets and Instagram captions alike, but I still have a certain softness for it. I think it's because we're eight months in the future and it makes my heart hurt as if it's been eight minutes.
I suppose I should've gone to bed before things escalated. I knew it would happen, because it always does, and the fall is an especially vulnerable time. The change it brings is exciting, however, it is change all the same. Deadlines and deadlines and boys whose names I can hardly speak and alcohol-induced vomit and not enough places to go. Rapid change. Preparing for change. I wonder if I'll ever feel prepared.
As my alarm clock glowed 2:00 am, officially, I am disgusted with myself. I suppose it's because my whole life I've prided myself on being a realist: knowing my limits, knowing what to say what to do and how to interact with all sorts of people. Never getting caught up in meaningless drama, keeping good morals and values. A respectable public image is what I yearned for, always.
And imagine how I feel as I start to realize this has all simply been an act. My chest burns with the understanding, the knowledge that I have let too many people define me and bend me when I swore they never could. Too many people leading to these late night laments, the waves of regret and the constant "what-ifs" with those who could've been. And I don't let myself conclude that it's just me until the morning. I pick out a scapegoat. Whoever seems most applicable takes the blame, unknowingly. It's always someone's fault.
if he had stayed with me if he had cared more if he had never fought with me if he had treated me better if he had liked me this would all go away
For three full years I had been doing this to myself. And I could give you five names of who I've blamed, more than that, probably, when in the end it was entirely up to me. It was my fault. and yet I had never taken the heat.
This is when it all crashed over me, breaking bones and bursting tear ducts as the loathing swallowed me whole. When people say they hate themselves I cringe at the immature connotation of the statement. How juvenile it sounds, how seventh grade. And yet there I was, plunging into new depths of my own personal hell I had been building since that seventh grade.

I had seen better nights.