Open letter to a person from the past:
We were best friends in primary school - I can't even remember from when, or how or why we were friends. What I do remember is that day at the start of year six when I greeted you near the recycling bin and you told me 'My mum told me I should get more friends, for high school' and walked off.
I remember not understanding what you were talking about - why your mum would say that - why that meant that I couldn't be your friend any more. And I watched as you struggled to fight your way in - as you copied the other girls, tried too hard - they'd all laugh and imitate you. Like that time we had sports on the oval and you'd rolled your skirt at the top to make it short, but you'd rolled it so many times there was a big lump around your waist.
But then somehow you found 'success' and left me behind without a second glance.
The only time you spoke to me after that was to tell me not to wear my school socks over my stockings. Twice. Other than that, it was like we'd never met.
It was like you never stopped to think about what you were doing or what you had done.
How it would make me feel.
How I would lie on the floor of the loungeroom and cry - not understanding what I was feeling and what was going on. And in my teeny confused angst I'd sob along to Radioheads 'creep', thinking it was all my fault.
Do you realise now? Did you ever realise?
I often wonder how much of my behaviour has been dictated by what happened in 1993.
And in many ways I'm still waiting for an apology.