Silly girl

Shortly before my seventeenth birthday, I went on a week-long camping trip with YFC (the charity I ended up doing a gap year with). I met hundreds of new people; Christians, my age, and they were wonderful and exciting. A new chapter of my life started that week.

Part of that chapter (a not inconsequential part) was my discovery of hugs. On the last night, after a waterfight and a bedtime story (a Mister Men book, though I forget which one), I ended up in the arms of a young man called Matthew. I'd never met him before that week - odd, considering the vast crossover between any two lives on the Isle of Wight. We cuddled into the early hours, just stood up in the middle of the campsite enjoying holding each other. At an age when many of my peers had lost the big V, I was still astonished that anyone would willingly touch me. Yes, my self-esteem was that low. I found a spot on the back of his neck that made him shiver, and for me that was a breakthrough - the beginning of the realisation that I, too, could be desirable.

I remember him telling me then that this didn't mean anything special, and that some girls got the wrong idea.

"I think I can manage not to fall for you," I said, possibly raising one eyebrow sardonically in what turned out to be utterly misplaced confidence. It took me a good two years to get over him properly; two years wasted obsessing over a guy I could never really have been happy with. Eventually, I met Gavin and realised that stupid unrequited crushes are best left in high school.

All that was over six years ago now, and a lot can change in six years. I grew up. I  left high school, did my gap year, found myself, lost myself, moved away from home, started university, found love, had a three-year relationship, moved to Cardiff, made new friends... and yet...

"You know I'm no good, right?"

"Yeah. You can join the rest of the world on that one."

I have learned exactly nothing. History, it seems, is doomed to repeat itself. I am a moron.