Name
Creative
Forres Academy
English Headaches
So every now and then I face this dilemma. It’s shocking that all teenage boys at a
certain point in life have to undergo such humiliation; such torment; such horror. I think girls
don’t mind it too much, but I honestly get driven completely insane occasionally by the
prospect ahead of me. It drives me crazy and I lose all rational thought; my brain becomes a
frenzy of confusion and fear. The failure to perform, and perform well, is terrifying. So you
want to know what this terrifying prospect I’m about to experience is? Yes, you’re right: it’s
a personal/reflective piece of writing.
So when my heartless and sadistic English teacher tells me to write this piece, I fill
with dread. It wells up inside me and I feel like at some point it’s just going to boil over.
Then when it does, it leads to some pointless yet heated fracas with my mum all because I
hate writing about myself. I don’t see why anyone would want to read it and if no one wants
to read it, why write it? I get stressed out writing about my feelings and it makes me want to
scream. The fear of seeming weak and pathetic on a piece of paper consumes me. It stops me
being honest.
For teenage boys, feelings are a minefield of terror. I’m the epitome of this. Putting
the way I feel into words is hard and even when I know what I want to write, the words don’t
seem adequate. They make me look ambivalent and pathetic, even childish, but that’s not me.
I don’t want them to define me and for people to think this is ‘the real me’. The ‘me’ my
parents know; my best friends; those that care about me is not a crying baby sat in the corner
just because of a tiny little thing. It’s a guy with feelings yes, but it’s a guy who doesn’t want
to show them to everyone, let alone write them down so it can be recorded and remain
forever. That’s why I feel like everyone wants to expose me when I write these pieces. I’m
cornered with no way out. I can’t just ignore it or not do it; my English teacher would turn
into an evil, sadistic dragon with huge claws and shower me in flames and endless torture
until I scream for mercy and write the essay. After this, more torment would rain down on
me: I would face another barrage in my next lesson from Guidance as to why I didn’t do my
homework and how it’s going to ruin my life and I will fail at university if I don’t pour my
whole soul into this personal piece. And they will continue like this: blah, de blah, de blah,
until I give in. Basically it seems like all the bossy, barbarous people in my life think that I
Name
Creative
Forres Academy
will die if I don’t submit this stupid little waste of paper about me and my dull, boring and
utterly tedious life. This grinds my nerves like sandpaper wearing and wearing and wearing
me down. Brutally! Mercilessly!
Then crash, it all falls down on me: two days to go and it’s getting dark. The future
scares me. The thought of actually exposing my inner thoughts to everyone is like a knife in
the dark, creeping up behind me; it’ll catch me eventually and then I’ll sit down and instead
of telling the truth, I’ll sprout lies onto the page till my stock of falsehoods has petered out.
All because it’s a case of lie or fail or worse, open up and say what I really think and feel. But
what do I write about? I can’t write about those horribly cliché subjects like; my fluffy little
doggy died or my mum’s auntie’s sister decided to get married or something bloody stupid
like that. I’d just be writing what’s been written a thousand times before by other bored
teenage boys. Who wants to read such drivel?
Why should I be forced to destroy my morals for a tick in a box? The thoughts whiz
around inside my mind like a hamster in a wheel till the wheel cracks and fragments
scattering across my skull. Broken! Trashed! And worse, following all of this, my mum
decided I didn’t deserve any privileges so she took them all in one foul sweep of cruelty. I
start to redden. My veins start to bulge. My palms pour with sweat. Everything is blurry.
Unfocused! My worst fears were realised: no biscuits, no cakes and no ice cream. Not even
Irn Bru! It’s like life blood for any Scotsman. It’s like Whisky, Black Pudding and Haggis.
You can’t take them away. But still I couldn’t back down. I wouldn’t give in. Sadly, the
torture was just beginning: there was also no football; no movies; not even TV. For one full
week. Yes that’s ONE whole week. For me that’s eternity. My future was over. There was
just darkness. The nights were long and cold and lonely. And all of this occurred because of
that stupid school I attend, where the dragon turned my nefarious mother into an Ogre so evil
she made Hannibal Lecter look like a giant fluffy teddy bear. So you’re probably thinking,
wasn’t it easier to just write it? It’s just words after all.
There lay the foot of the problem. ‘Words’. My thoughts weren’t words. My feelings
aren’t a story. My experiences shouldn’t be condensed onto paper. Yet, I can’t stand the
horrifying thought of letting people down. Failure looms over me like a darkening cloud; a
vision of my empty future passes in front of me. It’s confusing. My future has always looked
bright but whenever a personal piece crops up, I turn into an express train. I’m charging
forward, but the breaks are shot. I’m going to crash and burn. Fire shall consume and destroy
Name
Creative
Forres Academy
me and I will be burnt from the inside out, scorching everything around me; destroying all
that was dear to me. I’m being overly dramatic you say? I’m a teenager! We’re supposed to
be dramatic! I think I’m entitled to a little hyperbole! You wanted feelings after all! Thoughts
like this swell up inside me until I have an idea. If I’m honest it’s not great. Why don’t I write
a personal piece about my intense feelings about writing personal pieces? It fits the criteria
and there’s the chance to show insight; that thing that teachers blab about that no-one knows
or understands what it really means. There’s always a chance I’ll crash and burn but at least,
I’ll have done it my way.
I fight my way through. The keyboard is mightier than the sword. The fears surround
me but I’m fighting back. My fingers dance across the keys. I move closer and closer to the
conclusion of my tribulations. I’m trembling; it will be over soon. By no means do I believe
that I’m going to have written a marvellous essay but I know I will finish; I will hand
something in, and to me, that’s more than I ever expected.
This piece won’t win a Pulitzer Prize but I’m proud of myself and to a degree, it. Not
because I believe it’s great: to my best knowledge this is crap and if I’m honest, I don’t want
this to be read; it’s embarrassing how bad this composition is but it’s finished and that’s a
relief for me. I fought; I didn’t give up and I won. I can breathe at last. Tranquillity pours
over me again, eventually. I feel relaxed at last. I’m no longer worried about it. After all, at
the very least, I get my Irn Bru back. What else matters?
Word Count: 1297