pearl sedina, district four | finished

Um, there's not a lot to talk about.

I say that with as much respect for myself I can muster — I have never been someone who's itching to write their autobiography. You're just going to get bored and stop reading halfway through, and then what am I left with? Hurt feelings? I'd rather not. And don't get me wrong, I get it. My anxiety is what's kept me away from so many experiences in my life.

'Don't let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game, Pearl!' Yeah, that's really sweet and all, but you try standing on the field while the whole stadium watches you fuck up their championship dreams. I don't play sports, by the way. That's just a metaphor. It's actually kind of ironic, but writing is my thing. Just not about myself.

Let's summarize: I'm not top of the class. I have not been, and will never be, invited to one of Reid Whittaker's parties. Prom queen is a nice thought, but I'd need to find a date before even considering the crown. Which I'm not. And I have 100% cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-literally-catch-flames never, ever found myself dreaming that I could be that girl.

The one that people notice.

Because that's my little sister. Fun!

I'm also a huge, awful, hypocritical liar. Because guess what! I have 100% yes-I'm-catching-fire-as-we-speak dreamed about being that girl. Obviously. I'm only human. And it's easy to get jealous when you're related to your high school's rising starlet, and barely any of your teachers can remember your name. Even though it's literally their job to do just that.

Uh, yeah. It makes you feel shitty.

It made me feel that way, at least. Because then you start hating yourself — because you just want some kind of reaction. From anyone. It doesn't matter. You spend your whole life flying under the radar, watching all these wonderful things happen to strangers who aren't you, and you realize it's your own fault. You're lashing out at people who don't understand why.

It's comfortable living in the background, is what I'm trying to say. Until you see what it's like on the other side, watching a sister live out these impossible fantasies that only ever existed in your head, and then... okay. You've caught me. I'm spiraling. Eighteen years old, and I have nothing to show for it. Just a lifetime of disappearing.

A lifetime of no one asking me to stay.

Listen, I love my family, and this little community I've grown up in, but— um. I haven't figured out how to like myself. That was always on the backburner for me, and now it's causing some issues. Because I'm the one that made it okay for people to ignore me. I encouraged it. I asked for a small corner in this great big world, and now I need more.

The real problem is how I'm going about it. What I did to Natica was very, very harsh — and I'm not excusing it. When you go to your big sister and ask her to help you with an application for a TV show, the last thing you expect is for said big sister to stab you in the back with literally the rustiest knife known to man. Because I wrote down my name.

Not hers.

I've made up this person in my head, this incredible girl who has seen and done it all — someone better than Natica, someone who could even make her feel small. A girl who shies away from nothing, who parties every weekend and has so many wild stories to tell. Pretty crowns and trophies all over her room. And, uh, apparently that's me. I'm that person now.

And I shouldn't be this excited about it. But, fuck.

I'm so ready to start living. Even if it's not my real life.

Especially because it's not my real life.