The Good Old Days

Some people say that the "good old days" are stupid. Why? Perhaps because looking back at the history of the US, America today is better than ever. Less racism, less cruelty against certain groups of people, a more stable economy (Ha! Funny!) etcetera, etcetera...but really, I'm talking about MY good old days. The days when I wasn't so outgoing and social. I miss the days when I suffered in silence and I miss the days when every school day sucked and was just another marking point in my miserable life, because back then, I wasn't a bitchy, obnoxious, hormonal, mean, selfish fifteen-year-old. I could blame any number of things for my behavior, like stressful work at school, or tense relationships with friends, or even just exhaustion from a long week. But after three or four or five months of the same excuse, it begins to sound like a lie, even to my own ears. I don't miss the collective sighs I get from my parents, and I certainly don't blame them. I can't even blame my every meltdown, every tear shed, every door slammed as just an onset of hormones, because when it comes down to it, most of it is just because I can't get a handle on my emotions. I use my family as a punching bag, as an outlet for my stress, fury, sadness, and confusion. And they don't deserve it. Heck, I wish they could just snap and say, "TO HELL WITH IT! I AM DONE! DONE!!" But no, instead they just take it and deal. I can't control this monster inside me, and I'm not sure where the ten-year-old Katie went. I don't know when her extended vacation is over, but I'm just about ready to call someone to snatch her and replace this monstrous, practically demonic teenager. I would readily take a couple slaps to the face, some verbal and emotional torture, and even some mortifyingly embarrassing mistakes over this. Anything but this. Absolutely anything. I can't take living inside my own skin. I don't hate myself, not quite, but I certainly don't like me, either. I'm debating whether to say "Fuck off" or say "Kick your shoes off and hang around" and apparently my body was already decided the latter is best for me. I don't agree. I want the good old days again. My heart aches for it; my eyes stream with unshed tears knowing I can be so much more genial, so much warmer, so much kinder, and yet simply can't. It kills me. I don't like myself; heck, I HATE myself. I want to rip my skin, and hope to holy hell there's something besides bones underneath it. I wish I could tear my flesh, piece by piece, and see ten year old Katie lying there, under it, and I'll be all like, "Hey! There you are! I've been looking for you for forever, man! Glad to have finally found you!" And then peace will be restored to the universe and yay everything's great. Unfortunately, it doesn't work out that way. Unfortunately, in the *real world* life isn't fair. Life brings ups and downs and more often that not gifts me with the downs rather than the ups. Still, I carry on, because what good is mourning that which you don't have? It doesn't do anything for you, certainly. But that's what I get, I guess, for being such a brat. Payback's a bitch, isn't it?