The obvious answer to this is that I would “do-over” the first time I went into my doctor’s office with my very first symptom of having Cervical Cancer. I would list all of my symptoms and then instead of nodding and feeling stupid when he told me that my abnormal bleeding was due to my age/weight/hormones, I’d politely tell him that I’d just listed all of the main symptoms of a terminal disease, and that I was requesting to be sent for investigation, and that if he didn’t send me I would be making a formal complaint. That would have saved me the last two years of having to live with this disease. I would have been diagnosed early enough to have it fixed with a hysterectomy, or maybe less. It might have spared me the radiotherapy, and maybe I wouldn’t have had all my hair fall out. It would certainly have spared me and everyone else around me from the trauma of the last eighteen months treatments.
But that’s the obvious answer.
I used to watch ‘Being Erica’, and loved the idea of it. Of being able to go back and change your actions, to be less awkward, to not do that thing that you’ve been beating yourself up about for your whole life afterwards. Never more so than when I started having a clear-out/tidy-up post New Year and found all my journals from when I was a teenager. They’re completely cringe worthy. In my old age I seem to have forgotten how out of sorts I felt, how few people I could trust, how incredibly awkward I was, and how much I hated almost everyone, even – no – especially my friends. I guess it’s like that thing you do after labour. They call it ‘mumnesia’, because you instantly forget the amount of pain you were in after the event.
I’d go back to the first day of the last year in high school. I’d spent the summer working and hanging out with my sister and discovering music while my friends, the girls I hung out with at school, went on their summer holidays with their non-divorced parents, went off on day trips together while I slaved away in a shop, and by the end of it I suppose I’d outgrown them as much as they’d ignored me. I was a different person to the quiet, timid, always trying too hard girl that had left there in the summer, yet still on going back there, I went back to trying to fit in, pretending I liked what they liked still, pretended that I wasn’t royally pissed off with them for what felt at the time, abandoning me. I fell back into place at the bottom of their food chain and let them carry on making me feel like crap for another six months before I finally shrugged them off and did my own thing. This is what I would change.
I’d go back, knowing that in a few months time they’d be copying me. When they laughed at my Doc Marten boots on the first day of school, instead of letting them make me feel bad, I’d keep my head up and tell them how good they were for kicking people with. I’d have made it clearer that I didn’t have crushes on the boys I’d loved the year before, that instead I wanted the tall guy in the back with the long hair. I’d have been more vocal that I’d been listening to grunge over the summer, had found something I felt comfortable and connected with. I’d have started to experiment with make up earlier; and I’d wear the shit out of those second hand flowery baby doll and shift dresses instead of going back to my jeans every time. I would tell them that I wasn’t fat anymore. I was never fat in the first place. And pull them up on what kind of shitty friends they were in the first place, to find enjoyment in making one of their own feel unworthy.
I’d go back, and I’d work harder. Get a proper weekend job, and earn more. I’d appreciate my family. Go and see my grandparents more. Help my mum out more. By this point I’d started getting on with my sister already, but I’d definitely try to tag along with her more. Instead of hiding in my room writing in my journal all the ways a bunch of girls I would cut myself off from in the future made me feel useless.
I’d go back, and just be myself. Be confident in who I was becoming, let myself grow into my own skin and my changing body and shake away the awkwardness that was put upon me. Maybe I’d have the courage to stop being friends with those girls who told everyone else all my secrets to get attention for themselves sooner. I know who the decent people from school are, these days. The girls who were probably a lot like me, who came into their own when they could leave the fabric they’d been woven into at the end of the school year.
I don’t know how much this would change life as it is now. maybe that’s why I picked this as something I’d do over. It’s more to do with having self respect early on, about standing up to the bullies who made me believe I was ugly and boring and fat for far too many years. The things I didn’t do, just so I wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.
If I’d taken a stand at this point, I believe I’d have far fewer regrets today.