The story of how it all began.
It was just after my thirteenth birthday that I discovered a hidden passion for music and art. It was during my first year of high school that I developed a distasteful hatred for humankind. I was thirteen when I realized the unimportance of friendship and social acceptance. And it was at the conclusion of year eight, when social status and popularity were a necessity -that I realized how unhappy I was and wondering which direction it was that I was headed. It was at the beginning of year nine that I began to depend on friends and significant others a great deal as a temporary source of happiness. It was also the year that I began to fall behind in my studies. It was at this point of time that I realized my sensitivity and how easily I became upset and sullen- of course at the time I thought nothing of it. Year nine was also the year of my first serious boyfriend. An eleven month relationship that ended in bruises and tears, but fortunately no heartbreak.
The teachers told me that year ten was the first year of senior school, therefore a very important year. I disregarded their words and cared very little about my grades and subjects. The number of friends that I had was decreasing rapidly but trapped in my own torment -I failed to notice. It was here that I grew selfish and cared for no one but myself.
In year ten I turned fifteen and shut myself off from the world. I found it impossible to relate to anybody. I spent my weekends alone in libraries or sleeping in parks with books and sketch pads. My parents were hardworking at the time, and so completely oblivious to my troubles. I died my hair black when I was fifteen. The kids at school persisted at calling me a ‘Goth’ and spreading vicious rumors about what I supposedly did in my free time. I ripped my family apart with my violent mood swings. I was unable to tell the difference between reality the convincing stories that I had concocted inside my head.
The school became concerned when I began to skip classes and contacted my parents. They sent me to a psychologist named Lola. Her sessions were unbelievably expensive and to no surprise - did no help. I started showing signs of progression so naturally my parents assumed that I was cured.
Childish as it may seem, I was fifteen years old when I fell in love. A musician who had faced some as the same obstacles as I had. He was the only one who made the effort to understand me at my time of need; and the only one that I felt I could trust. So after countless love letters and intense making out I found myself attached. Five or so months had passed and the dream came to a chaotic end. And I was alone again. This time colder and more cynical than before.
Year eleven was the year that I began to focus on music and socializing again. I’d grown fond of Adelaide’s industrial and hardcore scenes. Most weekends were spent drinking cheap beer and attending hardcore shows. I made friends through other friends. I made a habit of falling for cute band boys. One night I stumbled drunkenly to an alleyway show where I found Jake Muscat. In a drunken rage I took a stand against my hatred for punk music, abusing both him and his band. The next day I received a text message from an interested boy. This relationship lasted for just under four months and consisted of chicken sandwiches AFI car rides, taking mushrooms at the river bank, Simpson’s quotes, Manson and green cordial at two am. It ended because I grew tired of myself. On the rebound I recall drunken kissing with girls and one gay boy.
It was that same night that I came into contact with one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, alas, he is a band boy. A vocalist of Paradise Burning, Ryan. Heartbreak was written all over the map.
Faz says:
I just wanted to say Hi and let you know I miss you.
Lora says:
Don't make me cry
Faz says:
You've already made me
Lora says:
An apology over the internet will seem hollow but I am sorry.
Faz says:
I'm not worth it
Lora says:
But you're making up for the happiness that I lacked.
And so the complications began. After almost two months of sleepovers falling asleep to Bright Eyes at six am, late night phone calls, beer, poetry, cigarettes and making out it came to an expected holt, which I am still hoping can be repaired over time.
The teachers told me that year ten was the first year of senior school, therefore a very important year. I disregarded their words and cared very little about my grades and subjects. The number of friends that I had was decreasing rapidly but trapped in my own torment -I failed to notice. It was here that I grew selfish and cared for no one but myself.
In year ten I turned fifteen and shut myself off from the world. I found it impossible to relate to anybody. I spent my weekends alone in libraries or sleeping in parks with books and sketch pads. My parents were hardworking at the time, and so completely oblivious to my troubles. I died my hair black when I was fifteen. The kids at school persisted at calling me a ‘Goth’ and spreading vicious rumors about what I supposedly did in my free time. I ripped my family apart with my violent mood swings. I was unable to tell the difference between reality the convincing stories that I had concocted inside my head.
The school became concerned when I began to skip classes and contacted my parents. They sent me to a psychologist named Lola. Her sessions were unbelievably expensive and to no surprise - did no help. I started showing signs of progression so naturally my parents assumed that I was cured.
Childish as it may seem, I was fifteen years old when I fell in love. A musician who had faced some as the same obstacles as I had. He was the only one who made the effort to understand me at my time of need; and the only one that I felt I could trust. So after countless love letters and intense making out I found myself attached. Five or so months had passed and the dream came to a chaotic end. And I was alone again. This time colder and more cynical than before.
Year eleven was the year that I began to focus on music and socializing again. I’d grown fond of Adelaide’s industrial and hardcore scenes. Most weekends were spent drinking cheap beer and attending hardcore shows. I made friends through other friends. I made a habit of falling for cute band boys. One night I stumbled drunkenly to an alleyway show where I found Jake Muscat. In a drunken rage I took a stand against my hatred for punk music, abusing both him and his band. The next day I received a text message from an interested boy. This relationship lasted for just under four months and consisted of chicken sandwiches AFI car rides, taking mushrooms at the river bank, Simpson’s quotes, Manson and green cordial at two am. It ended because I grew tired of myself. On the rebound I recall drunken kissing with girls and one gay boy.
It was that same night that I came into contact with one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, alas, he is a band boy. A vocalist of Paradise Burning, Ryan. Heartbreak was written all over the map.
Faz says:
I just wanted to say Hi and let you know I miss you.
Lora says:
Don't make me cry
Faz says:
You've already made me
Lora says:
An apology over the internet will seem hollow but I am sorry.
Faz says:
I'm not worth it
Lora says:
But you're making up for the happiness that I lacked.
And so the complications began. After almost two months of sleepovers falling asleep to Bright Eyes at six am, late night phone calls, beer, poetry, cigarettes and making out it came to an expected holt, which I am still hoping can be repaired over time.