niki fm.

This blog is about to be mighty personal.
[insert deep sigh here]

I have changed for the better and I am unspeakably proud of myself.
9th grade Khloe and I are two totally different people.
10th grade Khloe and I still keep in contact, but we don't visit too often.
11th grade Khloe is family to me, and I can't ever let her go, but we aren't the same.

8th and 9th grade ... that wasn't who I was at all.
I relied upon making others laugh/undermining people to make friends, and unsurprisingly it worked. But, the friends I made weren't really people I expected to stay around. I'm quite used to being used and then being alone. That's how it's been my life. No one likes being bothered with me, so I'm quite used to sitting at home all alone reading a book or doing something else to distract myself from daydrifting into abstract thoughts that lead me into having a headache. Hm. Backstory time, I guess. 7th grade, I was beyond fucked up. I got into a lot of shit I had no business dealing with. I had a little taste of the real world (I had gone to private, catholic schools exclusively prior to 7th grade) and I thought I was ready for a full glass. & You know, it's lonely at the bottom and at the top. At first, no one liked me because I was a 'teacher`s pet' due to the fact that I ENJOYED doing work. And since I was new to a school, I obviously wanted them to like me. So I conformed. Insert drugs. Insert oversexualization. Insert slang. Insert general sheltered life. Cleverly disguised as normal to them, but fighting myself on the inside to be 'me'. Blah, skip a few months. I think I'm a badass. The shit, in a matter of words. I'd fight you no matter who the fuck you were. Argumentative. Dangerous. Destructive. All I remember is being angry, then going home and having to cry myself to sleep. Wake up and do it all over again. It only got worse when I was molested. (yep, said it. i've come to terms with it) It doesn't help if you're in a dank place and something that .... hurtful ... happens. The worse part was that it happened in the CLASSROOM and that it was the roomfull of guys who did it, not helped.

That was the breaking point.
Snap goes I.
I started skipping school, or just not coming.
As "fat" as it sounds, I realized I didn't have anyone to depend on. My dependancy upon people shifted towards a dependancy upon food. I had to eat three or four snickers a day to be satiated. If I was deprived, I just didn't feel whole, and would often beg people for money in order to get one. As logic dictates, three or four 400 calorie chocolate bars a day = BAD.
I went from 117 to 140.
Started stabbing people in the neck with colored pencils (lol true story).
Unfortunately, due to my 'badass' mentality and broken spirit, I missed roughly ... 32 days of school. Not enough to be promoted to the next grade. FAIL. Literally.

People who met me in 8th grade got this roughed up ass piece of coal.
Once a diamond, but somehow relegated due to societal decree.
They didn't meet me.
I still had that nasty accent from 7th grade that hid my actual intelligence with words such as 'dey'. They couldn't hear me too well, clearly.

9th grade Khloe was struggling to battle all the negative self-images she'd had from 7th and 8th grade and trying to change for high school. Finding it impossible, she turned to the only route that was available ... a nice sweet goodbye. (why the fuck did I just start narrating this shit? fuck it.) She made sure that no one would miss her. She wore sweatshirts everyday to blend in with the rest of the 'lames'. No one would miss them, so logically no one would miss her. Or maybe no one would see her. Along the way, she developed a moniker ... 'Khloe With a K'. Is that what the tombstone would read? Would that moniker help anyone realize why she was gone? It didn't matter. Along the course of the school year, Khloe's pain increased immensely. Being surrounded by pretty whilst being forced to accept that you're odd broods poorly. Khloe's attempts at goodbye failed, and she was stuck with using household items to lessen the hurt. Cuts diverted attention from the now ... nyquil diverted attention from the later. Living for tonight, trying to die in the morning. Making people giggle so no one would notice that there was a 'real' problem lying underneath the ball of laughs.


.... to be continued, since this is irrationally long.