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Name : Eloise Anson

Email : recoveringthesatellites@hotmail.com

Location : Leeds, UK

Date : 30/01/2003

Sixteen

The worst year of my life was my sixteenth. Having lived only twenty-four, it could be argued that my experience of anguish and upset is limited, but although sixteen may have been a young age to undergo such distress, I know a year like it could never repeat itself. My sixteenth year was the year I discovered love and it was also the year I discovered the pain, agony and misery that it goes hand in hand with it. Idealisms and dreams that I lived for were lost in that year, and the whole basis around which I had lived through for as long as I remembered were crushed beyond repair.

My year began in the same way as it did for many kids my age-in a drunken stupor at some house party. I had ended up at the celebrations of my parent’s friends, and as the twelfth stroke of the clock declared a new start for all, I was crouched behind my parent’s friends potting shed with their sixteen year old son sneaking a fag before wandering back in to be smothered in drunken hugs and affections. Joe and I had known each other for all of our lives. At just four months, his mother brought him and Nick, Joe’s elder brother by three years and four days, to see ‘little Ellis’, Jane’s adorable new daughter. Of course, neither Joe or Nick remember this, and my first memory of the three of us is when at four and a half years old, I searched for the two of them for almost an hour, before they leapt out of the tree above me, scaring me half t0 death. The three of us formed an alliance against our younger siblings, going to extreme lengths to annoy Chelsea, the newest addition to my family, and James, Joe and Nick’s third member.

Growing older, of course, the three of us grew apart, first when Nick tired of Joe’s company, and mine, seeking ‘more mature’ friends, and discovering an interest in girls. Although at the time I never saw it, looking back at old photos, he was far from unattractive, and he of course used this to his full advantage.

Joe and I endured our friendship a little longer, both of us feeling out of place in our families, Joe felt he was a social outcast unlike the rest of his immensely popular family, and me feeling as though my complex way of thinking and constant questioning of life bewildered my straight thinking and conforming family. However, as we left primary school, we both left for different schools, and new and exciting lives as ‘grown up people’, and, in the course of things, developed into two very different people who couldn’t see eye to eye. We both became increasingly confident in the validity of our beliefs, and conceited in our assurance of our own opinion, as teenagers so often do. Whereas before, we would have listened to the other, and learnt, we now dismissed each other’s ideas as ridiculous and below us.

In my fifteenth year, events between our families meant I was forced to spend a great deal of the summer with Joe, and we slowly apologised to the other, and realised what we had thrown away, learning to forgive and throw aside preconceptions in our out of school environments. Before we had chance to rehabilitate what once existed, however, Joe was snatched from me, and thrown into a relationship with a pretty blond popular something, and suddenly was propelled to dizzy heights of popularity. Being highly critical of the cliquey, hypocrital people who moved in the circles I had been offered and had rejected, I quickly distanced myself from Joe, not wanting to end up in circles I disliked so strongly, thus ruining what we almost fixed.

At the time, I knew what I was losing, and that a friendship with someone that I shared so much with was being wasted, but popularity is something that I have always seen as being over rated. When I started secondary school, I found myself in circles with people I disliked, and yet went to great lengths to please. People clamoured to know me, and I felt really wanted for the first time in my life. It took only weeks for me to realise that living in an environment that required you to be someone else all of the time was something I could not live with, and so found myself new friends, ones who loved me for me - and got out of the stifling environment of falseness.

I hardly spoke to Joe between summer and the New Year, and when I did it was when my mind was clouded by alcohol, and we spent much of the night talking about Joe’s girlfriend and how much he missed her.

Our meetings were scarce, few and far between after that, and I never once missed them. Although not officially ‘popular’ I had more true friends than could be counted on two hands, quite an amazing achievement, and I was never short of someone to talk to when confronted with life.

And so I was slightly taken aback by the irregularity of matters when Joe stopped to wait for me to walk me home when I got of the school bus in early June. He said he was wondering how my exams were going and said he was sorry we hadn’t talked for so long. When the four-minute walk to my house reached it’s end I said goodbye, and, slightly disorientated by the whole thing, made my way inside, bemused, and a little irritated that my routine had been confused. I didn’t give the matter a second thought, but on the forth day of occurrence, I asked after Joe’s girlfriend, and was horrified by the tears that followed. I felt that the tears unlocked his emotions, and somehow built an unwelcome bond between us that I may not be able to break. She had cheated on him and dumped him at the beginning of the week, closely followed by his demise from the ‘popular’ social circles.

This was how I ended up sat in the pub with him on Friday night. Although we were too young to be legally served, I was a waitress in the restaurant extension of the pub, and they seemed to overlook my lacking of two years needed for their supply of vodka to me to be legal. Being so naïve and young, I had decided that a night of fun and alcohol would help cure his self-pity. I didn’t realise that the alcohol was actually a way of me trying to detach myself from Joe’s real emotions. Of course, this could never work, and I ended up with an almost delirious Joe falling over himself in the high street telling me how special I was before launching himself at me. I found myself hesitate before putting my arms in front of me to prevent him from kissing me, and scared senseless by my near escape, I deposited him at his house hurriedly and went back to the safety of my own home. If he wanted to rebound, he could find some other fool. After sixteen years, the least he could do was respect me.

Of course he was repentant and full of apologies the next day, and not having the heart or the energy to do anything else, I laughed it off and told him not to worry. Besides, the night had been a blurry haze of occurrences, with events I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, rationalise. Better to just dismiss the whole evening as a blip of confusion in an otherwise understood existence. Things began to retire back to normal, with Joe occasionally waiting for me to walk me home at night, but that being my only time spent with him.

In July, I found myself well and truly thrown against my will into the path of Joe’s life – why could I not escape from this tangled web? Every time I tried to manoeuvre my way out an find an escape, I found myself bound and stuck in amongst the delicate, intimate threads of the web. I was forced to spend an entire evening lodged between Joe and his ex girlfriend Stephanie, desperately trying to engage them both in conversation. Our parents had all decided to go out for a meal together, and not wanting to upset Joe or ‘Stephie’, insisted I was placed in between – but their icy exteriors managed to penetrate me. Our parent’s tact knew no boundaries. We all sunk to sitting in stony silence, me feeling their glares, as they pierce through me to the enemy on the other side. It was with great relief I agreed to go to the shop down the road with Joe half way through the meal. Silently we made our way round to the back of the restaurant and Joe pulled out his fags, offering one for!
me, before taking one himself. I pulled out a lighter, and lighted up, and drew in the smoke in long, deep breaths. I look back at the times when I smoked with resentment. But, at the time, I never contemplated how difficult it would be to give up. I seemed to enjoy poisoning my body.
Joe suddenly looked up, and, avoiding my glare, said, ‘’I’m so sorry’.
‘For what?’
‘For this. You don’t need it. You’ve been really great to me and I repay you by lunging myself at you blind drunk, showing you no respect, and making you sit through this with us two’. He sounded sincere and apologetic, but it just made my angry.
‘Don’t apologise! This is hardly your fault! Did you dump her? No. Did you cheat on her? No. Did you estrange her from all of her friends? No. Did you leave her with only one friend who she doesn’t like much anyway? No. NO, NO, NO! You bloody well did not. So don’t apologise to me, just hold your head up high and pretend that you sure as hell don’t care!’

I stopped, out of breath. I didn’t know where my outburst came from. I’d thought I was too detached from the issue to have that much passion for it. It was typical of me to be oblivious to an event that would eventually stain my life until it was upon me. Joe looked at me, trying to weigh me up, deciding on his next move. Slowly, and cautiously, he drew in another drag from his cigarette. He obviously subscribed to the same view as me - that smoking must make you an adult.
‘She did me a favour. She made me see how much I hated that lifestyle. I never fitted in; I hated them all, yet I was too scared to let it go. I didn’t see it at first, but by losing all of them, they allowed me to get closer to someone I love. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. In fact, you’re my only friend. You mean so much to me, you’ve always been there. Don’t tell me to get over Stephanie - I already did, and I wouldn’t have coped if it weren’t for you. Not because I loved her – because I realised I never felt anything for her, and the realisation that I wasted so much time on her devastated me. But because you were there, I realised someone could … actually … mean something more to me.’
I could feel his eyes digging into me, glaring at me intently. Grudgingly, I shifted my focus to meet his gaze with caution and apprehension. As soon as I met them, the breath was forced from me, and I nearly doubled over with pain. Shit. I loved this kid. I loved him, and what made it worse was that I always had, I just never realised. And in the second I looked I understood where the reasoning behind the clichéd love poetry and tales of love came from. Yet this didn’t convey that. I have never felt so much pain. I saw love in his eyes, and I knew he loved me too. And yet, what if? What if this happened and it turned out I was the rebound girl. My friends hated him, and he wasn’t who I wanted to be with. I saw the future in those seconds. A future of security, safety and trust. A future where I always knew where my life was going. One where I had no power. One where I would conform and follow the clichés of life. Apparently, love was addictive. To go in for this now could !
mean a lifetime of falling in and out of love. Or, it could go the other way – I could end up knowing no love but his. There was no way I was living like that. I was a free person, and I would never belong to anyone but me. As these thoughts raced through my consciousness, I became short of breath, and my panic must have shown on my face. Pulling away from his gaze, an ache inside me longed to change my mind - and I looked upon myself cynically for letting myself feel these ridiculous school girl pangs. I concentrated on the intricate paving on the ground, and then, on the endless, bleak limestone slabs that extended beyond them. Pulling my breaths into a regular pattern, I murmured, ’I’m cold. Lets go back in.’ I didn’t wait for him. Selfishly, I left Joe, bewildered, crouched behind the back of the restaurant, as the sky above him collapsed from the tremendous weight of the rain above it. The heavy droplets cascaded relentlessly around him as I left him alone, before making my excuses to my mother, and walking home in the pouring rain.

The following Monday dawned with clear blue skies, and a fresh, new clean feel in the air. The atmosphere in my mind contradicted the hopeful new day, clouded with confusion. I knew I had been plunged into love, and every time I remembered the moment when I looked into Joe’s eyes, my whole body seized up, and I couldn’t breath properly. I worked myself up all day, worrying about what I would do, when I would see him. My best friend, Sophie noticed my anxiety, and asked me in a sympathetic way if I needed to talk. I told her I was just tired, and that I was really upset about the detention I had just been given. She believed me, and gave me an empty, mislead hug. I felt deceptive and cruel - my friends were willing to give me so much affection and I couldn’t even return honesty to them. They were all so loving, and yet I could not bring myself to give any love to anyone.

I needn’t have worried about what I would say to Joe. When I got off the bus that night, a vast expanse of empty gravel and tarmac awaited me. Joe wasn’t there. I walked home in seven minutes by myself, pondering the French exam I had just taken. Tuesday, Wednesday and the rest of the week emerged in much the same way, and a month passed in which I did not see or speak to Joe. This wasn’t like before. I missed him; his company and the way he made me feel special. I didn’t want to love him, but I did, and the month I spent without him seemed pointless, endless and dull. I couldn’t believe how easily I had become a slave to love. I had put myself above that.

The summer holidays arrived, uneventful, and I found myself sat at home, watching daytime TV and writing realms and realms of monotonous, uninspiring poetry and love sonnets. Rather than going, I found myself refusing invitations of nights out from friends and potential dates so that I could lie on my bed listening to ‘Anna Begins’ by the Counting Crows. I had no energy, and no desire to enjoy life. What was the point? Love would only get in the way. I despised that word – I wished for it just to be mere infatuation – that word was so much less repulsive to me. The day after my birthday, Mum announced she had booked a holiday for us with Joe’s family. I responded to the ‘exciting’ news by being miserable and wondering how to spend the last few days of my life.

We travelled to Spain in the middle of August where we booked ourselves into the unimaginatively named ‘Beachside Hotel’. On our first day, I prided myself on managing to avoid Nick and Joe with great ease as they made full use of the hotel’s leisure facilities and I sat on the beach, in amongst coke cans and cigarette ends, reading my Sylvia Plath novel twice over. Avoiding Joe during the evening became more difficult when my mum booked a table for everyone at a restaurant down the road. I chose a place at the opposite end of the table to Joe. He kept glancing over at me, and I noticed for the first time how different he was to the little boy I knew as a kid. He was beginning to fill out, and actually looked a little like Nick. He wasn’t a kid anymore, but then, I realised, neither was I. I wasn’t an adult either, I’m still not, even now, my irrational thinking means I am too irregular to ever be called an adult. Joe kept looking at me. I kept catching his eye, and he would!
abruptly pull away defensively. I felt a sudden pang of sadness-I had hurt him and I had hurt myself and he had done nothing but love me. Suddenly, I felt an alien build up of moisture in my eyes. I never cried! I haven’t cried since the time when I was nine and swung so high on the swings in the park that I went flying off, head first, into the hostile gravel, and broke my nose. And now I was going to cry again. I hastily turned to my Dad and told him I had a headache. I threw my chair back from the table with relief, and began to trudge back to the hotel, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. As I approached the gate, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I spun round to face Joe’s accusing eyes.
‘You’ve been avoiding me.’
I looked away. ‘I thought you must hate me. After I ran off that night. You stopped calling, you stopped waiting. You didn’t come to the bus stop.’ My lip trembled, and I tensed my lip to make it stop. Now he looked away, embarrassed.
‘I couldn’t, I…’
I looked questioningly. He looked up, breathed in deeply, sighed and turned back, with a look of determination set on his face. ‘I love you. There. I love you Ellis, and you don’t love me back, and it hurt, it hurt too much for me to see you. So I didn’t.
I just stopped.’
Now it was my turn to look away. ‘I need a fag,’ I thought. Instead, I said, ’I do. I do love you but I can’t, I wont, I don’t want to be hurt, I can’t belong to you, if when you leave you take my heart with you!’
This time I held his gaze, and he held mine. With horror, I became aware of the tear escaping done my cheek. Joe raised a gentle arm, and brushed it away. He took me in his arms, and I felt drawn towards him. This time, when he leaned In towards me, and his lips brushed mine, I kissed him back. I have never felt so terrible in all of my life. I didn’t want this, but my heart would not let me have it any other way. I was defenceless. I couldn’t believe the pathetic, idiocy of it all. Why couldn’t I just get over myself! I didn’t want a Mills and Boon ‘novel’ for a life, dammit!
And yet I couldn’t help but succumb to my emotions. I had to let myself lose my grasp of my preconceptions and contrived ideas about love, just for a little while…
We spent every minute we could cling onto together, but we never told anyone. We seemed to have a mutual understanding that it would be secret. We knew it could be no other way as when we went home, it would be over. I tried to soak up every memory every feeling, every twinge of love that I felt as I lay in his eyes on the litter ridden beach, my prejudices against letting these emotions cornered off into a box in the dark realms of my mind, for a little while. It rained all the while that we were there, and I returned from Spain with no evidence that I had ever been there.

On my first day home after the holiday, Joe and I walked by the river, hand in hand. We walked to the swing bridge, and we stood in the middle, as it rocked us back and forth, back and forth. He knew - he knew, but I told him anyway. I told him that we couldn’t, I couldn’t do with this, that it would never work. I told him that he did not really love me and that he was better of without me and that I would only burden his life and he just let me terminate our love – why didn’t he stop me? I suppose he knew me only too well, perhaps because he didn’t ever really love me. Maybe I was actually rebound girl. I try to persuade myself not – otherwise I have lived without mutual love – but what if? I felt shattered inside, because I knew that he did love me, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth. Because I didn’t really know what it was myself. I knew I didn’t want to be in this, that I couldn’t give my heart away, because it couldn’t let it get mangled and ruined in my!
sixteenth year. But I didn’t know why I couldn’t let myself fall in love. I just knew it couldn’t happen. We wept together on the bridge, then we crossed to the other side and we walked back home, silently, not touching. As we parted, we touched briefly, and both flinched, I knew he felt sense of foreboding behind our unity too. He left me at my gate, and he went home.

The next day, I went out with my friends, and we danced all night to songs I hadn’t heard since my fifteenth year. They seemed trivial and unreal. When September dawned, I was happy, and I went back to college as a better person. I knew that I was alive, even if I had denied myself happiness.

When I clamoured off the bus, on my first day back at college, Joe wasn’t there. I felt a momentary pang, but I made the 8 minute journey home by myself. It was hard without him, but I could do it. I didn’t need him. I knew now. I knew why I should never fall in love, because I would always sabotage it, and then I would have ruined my routine. Gradually, things seemed to get back to how they were before – well, my routine and daily life at least. I didn’t forget Joe, and every time I saw him I felt a stab of regret for my own stupidity, and the realisation that I couldn’t have him back, because even though I needed him, I didn’t want him.

I spent the new year of my seventeenth year with an early night, watching Moulin Rouge on video, and being glad that I got myself out of love, before I ended up like Ewan McGregor, hopeless, sad and lost.

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