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On being ignored…

When I was a girl, the only time I got noticed was when I stuck my hand up in class to answer a question. But this was, ultimately, the wrong kind of attention. It showed people that I was clever and that I could do the work easily, so then i would get picked on. I never got asked – or ordered for that matter – to do anyone’s homework for them. But there were those who thought I was just a teacher’s pet, that I was sucking up, kissing ass.
So then I would get all the comments. If this is you, you know the ones I mean. From those people who aren’t stupid, but who aren’t mega clever either. Who are jealous of your intellect and can find no other way to express this other than taking the piss. It’s really pretty bad. And when you’re a struggling teenager who hates the way they look, well, that just makes it all the worse.
Because you know that they are only jealous. But because the comments about your smarts go unheard, they start to pick holes in the rest of you – your hair, your face, your non-existent breasts. They call you a dyke, a boy. they notice you don’t have fancy trainers, or new clothes every 6 weeks.
So they make these things the subject of their ridicule. And you can’t help but react, because that shit is personal. So you unconsciously make faces of pain when they say these things. These bullies notice your discomfort, so they just do it more.

And so continues a cycle of hurt and pain, and hiding for a vast number of years.

You want so much to be noticed for who you are, your strengths, your beauty. You learn that everything HAS beauty, but you are desperate for someone to acknowledge this.
When someone actually does, you want them to say it all the time, to tell you over and over, to reinforce it for you. You want to be showered in affection and kisses and you want to be touched. Because then you know that more beauty will spring from those acts.

But, because you crave it so deeply, you seek it out at the cost of all else. You want that connection, for someone to idolise you, adore you, to call you names that should only be repeated in private, in intimate moments. It’s like a drug, you just HAVE to have it. It becomes all consuming – the thing you think about last thing at night, the thought you wake up to every morning.

So you seek it, and you push people to give you that fix. And because they don’t want to tell you today, because they don’t want to hurt your feelings, they are silent. They don’t want to be a part of your addiction right now so, having acknowledged your request, they remain tightlipped. The words don’t come, the eyes you want so much to look upon you don’t turn in your direction.

You feel that awful rejection again.

The pain returns, the hopelessness, the futility of your quest. You hide in solitude once more. You pull a blanket over your hurt and cry yourself to sleep.