The Scary Truth.

Growing up scares me and I'm not afraid to admit it.

When I was nine, I was terrified of turning ten. It was double-digits; a scary step for a little girl.

When I was twelve, I was scared of turning thirteen. I would officially, physically be a teenager, despite having had the maturity of one for a few years already. I wouldn't have to worry about being turned away at cinemas for being under the required age when trying to get into a 13A movie. I could join sites on the Internet without parental consent. I wouldn't be viewed as a baby as much as I used to. It was scary.

And, now, as a thirteen year old, I just can't imagine myself being older. Fourteen seems so old to me; fifteen, even older. And it's a terrifying thought that, in just five years time, I will be an official adult. I'll be able to get driving lessons, go to uni, buy alcohol.

I think, rather than the actual growing up, I'm afraid of the responsibility that comes with it. The older you get, the more people rely on you to get things done, the more people expect you to stop acting like a little kid, the more people think you're capable of things like babysitting or being home alone.

Eventually, there won't be anyone else around to do the washing up or wake me up in the morning. There won't be anyone to cook me meals or iron my washing ... that'll be up to me, and me alone. I'll have to buy my food, I'll have to worry about taxes and bills, I'll have to worry about buying new clothes when mine don't fit. It's a terrifying thought.

Most of you will probably thinking, "You've got years until then. Why worry about it now? Cross that bridge when you get to it." I understand, I agree... but I can't help it. It's my nature to worry about things that shouldn't matter to me, to stress over small things, to make mountains of molehills. It's just who I am, and I wish I could change it, but I can't.

And so I'll worry, and stress, and bite my lip over growing up, instead of living for the moment and having fun with the present. That's just my persona.

Another thing about me, that people often question, is my perfectionism. I have cried, I have screamed, I have gotten so angry I've nearly torn my hair out ... over things that don't turn out how I want them to. Usually, this is with my art, when something I'm really dedicated to turns out awfully, or I don't get the eyes equal, or the mouth even ... or something silly like that.

At the time, I know I'm being silly, but I can't help it. I know my work won't be perfect, but I want it to be to the best of my ability, and if it's not then I get upset. Really upset. Not long ago, I was set Art homework - to draw a portrait of a family member. Using a photograph, I tried to draw my younger cousin. I can't remember what was wrong, but something turned out horribly, and I stared at the picture, hands clenched in my hair, fighting back tears, biting on my lip so hard it almost bled, for ten minutes straight. I had my earphones in and my music on really loud, so I couldn't hear my grandparents talking to me and trying to get me to listen. I only responded to anything when my mum put her arm around me - even then, all I did was shrugged her arm away. I got the portrait done eventually, with my mum's help, but I wasn't happy.

And I knew I was being stupid. But I couldn't help it.

Another way my perfectionism affects me is with my progress reviews. Every half-term, we receive a progress review, telling us what level we're at, what level we've got to be at by the end of the year, and whether our behavior, effort, and homework is excellent, good, satisfactory, or concern - for each of our classes. I'm a hardworking girl, I aim for the best, I try my hardest ... and when I see that I got an "S" for my homework in Maths, or I only got a 5.3 when I'm aiming for a 6.5 in Science, or whatever it may be, I get really upset. And while I'll laugh and joke with the others, wondering how the hell they can still be smiling after getting eight or nine concerns throughout their entire P.R., I'm trying not to show how upset I am over these small things.

At the start of Year Eight, when my Drama teacher mistakenly marked my effort as a "C", I felt like crying. Honestly, I did. But because it was so small compared to what some of the other people in my class had got, I bottled it up, and went to see my Drama teacher at lunch, inquiring it. I always worked hard in Drama, I always got decent evaluations and fair reviews, and I didn't disrupt the lesson like the others did, so I didn't understand why she'd marked me so low. As it turns out, she had meant to give me an "E", but looked at the person after me in the register on her little chart thing, when transferring them onto the computer. But even after knowing this, I still felt disappointed about getting that C, despite it being incorrect.

I guess it's because I expect too much of myself. I expect to be achieving close to my end-of-year target, I expect to be getting E(Excellent)s and G(Good)s for my behavior and effort. I expect to get easy, understandable action points. After every test, I think, "I could have done better", and yet when it gets back to us, I end up getting a good result. Because, although I know I did my best, the perfectionist in me thinks I can do better; expects me to, almost.

I don't know what the point of this post is... to let off steam, I guess, to vent, to get out my emotions. At the end of the day, that's what a blog is for, right? To let things out. And I've been thinking about growing up a lot lately, considering I'll be fourteen at the end of January 2011, which oddly enough, doesn't seem that far away to me.

Any other perfectionists out there?