Ella Scott – aged 18.
Party girl. The first to have nectar pouring down her throat, and the last one to say “enough is enough” at 2 am. The one to be carried home, ham and pineapple pizza in hand, worldly possessions, morals and cares littering the road behind. Classy and never trashy: still adored despite it all.
The girl who could shamelessly and guiltlessly fill the black hole in her heart with the snap of her fingers. Intentions always spiked with a poisoned malice; a middle finger to those who dare criticise and poke their knives in. My eyes spoke for themselves on every night out.
Poor decisions with brilliant stories: satisfactory outcomes which were more addictive than the night itself. Thriving off of sadness. I still chuckle and walk the path of nostalgia now. What is life without something funny to say?
Desperately unhappy yet never more content. Daddy issues and serious men problems; forever a negative experience with boys which I believe shall follow me forever. Relationships with the opposite sex plagued with pain and suffering stemming from my own trauma.
Off the rails yet quietly contained; not yet exploding until university came on the scene.
University: a new-found freedom which would see eyes widening and a glowing taste for the worst possible version of myself growing on my face. A stare in a dirty mirror reflected a tired, sad little girl with a bloody big heart, tainted with disaster and difficulty. Things were weird, yet I was still desperately happy.
How could things be going so bad, yet remain so brilliantly positive? An oxymoron which knew no bounds. Things were good. Things were bad. 18 was character-building, to say the least.
Ella Scott – aged 21
A loose, lost cannon. Still, the first to have nectar pouring down her throat, and surprisingly still standing at 7 am. The party beckons, yet I force myself into the mindset that I do not want to get involved. I love the thrill, but I cannot physically deal with the aftermath. There is no such thing as a quiet night in my books.
The one to force loving pals to carry me home, my worldly possessions causing my bank account havoc when too much tequila slips through the membrane. Forever pawning my vulnerable self off onto others to save me both physically and mentally. Thank god for my friends.
Is it time to grow up and face the music?
While the black hole has been cemented in beautifully – with blossoming flowers blooming proudly in its place – the scar remains deep, rigid and unmoving.
While things progress and reach peaks of pure ecstatic happiness I can still feel the gash’s mouth fluttering. I am self-destructing guiltlessly. Poor decisions and not-so-brilliant stories; taboo subjects with outcomes which require Jack Daniels to take the edge off. Ruining things is my speciality.
Desperately unhappy yet never more content. Off the rails yet quietly contained. The suffering which ripples the surface ever so often, leading to dazed days, nights of a “fuck it” mentality, and disastrous outcomes plaguing the brain. Losing friends left-right and centre.
Pretending to have it all together, yet life crumbling behind the scenes. Allowing a select few into the swirling mess, before dropping them back to earth either on their own accord or my own. Open the can of worms and you will be begging me to reseal.
While 18 was weird, 21 is more baffling. Where is the right step? Why must everything be figured out messily and unnecessarily? Why is nothing linear in life?
To hide underground, to stick my head in the sand and disappear. To stop the world spinning for a while. To start again fresh, with a clear judgement, a mind as sharp as nails and an agenda which rings with positivity.
Will this torrent of a relentless upheaval of the life I wanted so badly ever let up? I have never had such a brilliant time under such an excruciating circumstance. I am figuring things out the hard way.
I am happy, yet things have never been worse.