My anxiety is what drives me.
I wondered if I should leave enough room in my suitcase for my mental illnesses, or if they’d fit in my carry-on.
Today, I looked in the mirror and I decided I hated my legs—my thighs specifically. Up until today, I hadn’t minded my thighs. They were always wobbly, always pale, always riddled with a little bit of cellulite, but as far as thighs go, I was okay with them. I run constantly and my thighs help me. They push me further and faster, and even when they ache and shake, they never give out on me. But today, I decided I hated them.
I fall for boys who are nice to me. That’s my problem; I have a soft spot for compliments and affection, so when you took my hand and gave me your jacket when I was shivering, I melted.
Some days, I wake up in the morning with the inspiration to write. Sometimes, it hits me while I’m sitting on the train; sometimes, it happens when I’m at a bar with friends.
I was dependent on him—not only for directions but for almost everything.
1. It makes those who aren’t in relationships feel unloved.
You’re 14. Worry about the Jonas Brothers some more instead, please.