Jennifer Mole

About a girl suffering from depression, orthorexia and suicidal tendencies. Based off of me.

I have always wanted to be the best of me. The best that I could possibly give. In my talents, in my journey, in my skills. I have to hit 100% all the time. I guess that was what made me fall. That I had to be perfect and I wold cry when I was anything less.
I have often wondered if my family could have saved me. Would their affection, the constant dedication, would they have been able to help? Maybe. But it is too late for that now. The dice has bee cast.
But before I lose myself, before . . . before I give way to my tears, I must make sure that someone knows. That a soul, somewhere, will understand and remember me. Remember little Jennifer Mole.
I was 16 years old. I didn't know what that meant. What was supposed to be. All I knew was that I was dreadfully unhappy and when someone is dreadfully unhappy, they are hard pressed to do anything except sit against the cold window, looking at the rain outside, and feeling sorry for themselves. That was me. Feeling sorry for myself.
Up at the community care home, we had been having a lot of funerals. You would think that would make someone sad. Make them cling to their frail little life. The truth is I was both jealous, and fearful. Jealous because they didn't have to fight anymore. They'd won. No one would strike them again. Game over. And fearful because every day I live, I had prayed that I made some mark on the world. Because if I hadn't, then why bother getting out of bed? And for all my efforts, , my voice, my laugh, my experience, and I get a little plot of dirt and a few whispered words. That scared me. That's not fair.
And I was afraid because of other things as well. Things that, only now after months of heartbreak and anxiety, I see were behind my control. I couldn't have been perfect. There were too many things that I could not account for.
The summer of my 16th birthday, my mom died. I don't remember it so much now. It is like a festering wound. Like pouring alcohol on it. I can't ignore it. There's a part of my slowly rotting away, but if I don't mention it, no one will bring it up. My mom died. And that was that. Maybe when I consider what happened after, I would have been better joining her.
It only took Quentin a few months to realise he didn't want me. But come on! He was a paranoid drunkard, with a filthy tongue and a heart to match. I spent 3 months in hell. Locking my bedroom door. Going around to Lacey's for every meal I could get. Trying to come up with excuses at school for why I should stay. And every night, I had no choice. I went back home.
After the first few confrontations, Quentin snapped. He hit me. My face is still marked. But it doesn't sting as much as it did.
I think that I was a creature that liked to hold back. I could do it for perhaps a few weeks, maybe a month. No, I'm not depressed. No. I don't have an eating disorder. No, there's nothing wrong with me. It's normal. It's ok. But people do not cry when something is ok. They cry when they have been holding back for too long and it's time to let it out. That was me. With my anger and my pain and my disappointment and my sorrow. So mad that I just hit the ground and started to sob. I physically did not possess the words to verbalise my pain.
I went into a foster home. A place of protection. That took me from my roots. I get so envious at school when I look around and see the little year 7's being dropped off by their moms. Goodbye Lara. I love you. No one said that to me for days. Then the days turned into weeks. And the weeks turned into months. Time passed me by. That is when the depression took one step forward. I turned suicidal in the space of 3 months, 12 days and 3 hours.
It was midnight. Really quiet. I was alone in the dark. And I liked it. The silence. The world drawn to a halt. I wanted it to be that way forever and there was only one way to make it happen. End my life. Because I wasn't stupid and I was beginning to realise that no miracle was coming my way. I was going to be left to grow old and die alone, a fate I would not wish upon my worst enemy.
I couldn't be perfect. The eating disorder saw to that. I haven't been diagnosed but I know. I know because if I even look at chocolate at feel overwhelmed with disappointment and guilt. I wanted to eat it. For days, I lived off fruit and vegetables. Meat makes you too acidic, wheat gives you inflammation, dairy makes your bones break, cookies make you fat. All of that. I hate food. I hate being near it. And if I had to go near it, it must be perfect. I couldn't be perfect. But I still tried to be. And I still turned suicidal when I wasn't
Often, I have pondered it. If mom was still alive, if I had a family, if Quentin hadn't been such a jerk . . . could they have saved me? Perhaps. But in my heart I know the truth. There is no greater curse than to stand in a room filled with people and still be alone. That was me. And no one is coming to save Jennifer Mole.

Author's Note

Please tell me what you think of the writing style and the character! This is my first story where I have not edited it as I write. It's more spontaneous.n

Reviews

[Athena writes]

This is a great story! It needs to be slightly more fleshed out I think and with a little more attention to detail, it could be a gorgeous, heart breaking story. the main character is very vulnerable and relatable. It has the hallmark of a wonderful storyline.

[T Passos]

I enjoyed reading the short story, it's very touching and I think it could help teens since they can relate to the subject of the story. You could maybe give another look at your story since it has small typos (that happends to me a lot). Also, you could make the writing a little bit more flowing like adding connectors between phrases. Besides that, I really enjoyed the story, made me want to read more!

[B. Boileau]

It seems you rushed it a bit. Some typos, but more to the point I would have liked to see more indepth character history. This is a haunting story about an all too common tale of teenagers with depression, and eating disorders,and you vividly did tell that tale very well. I know when I rush through my stuff I always regret posting it too soon. I really like you narrative style, it just needs some tweeking I think.
Please let me know, I love reading others work.