young girl, don't cry

I like to forget my age.

I like to travel on my own, to make strong statements, and lie about how old I am before I saunter up to the bar for another shot of vodka.

I like to think I've grown beyond tears and feeling needy. Beyond craving comfort. Beyond calling my family just to hear a familiar voice.

I'm not.

I need to know I'm loved.

I still get teary eyed when I feel someone doesn't like me. When I realize I'm not as smart as I think I am.

I am writing a 'pitch', an attempt to get a column on my life as an aupair for a Toronto newspaper.

But there's a lump in my stomach.

My reporting teacher tells me to write bitchy, to spill any juice I can on the mother, and I feel the lump get heavier.

I feel as if I'm already invading the privacy of the family I'll be working for. They have been so kind already; I want to have a healthy relationship with them. I want to connect with the mother, who could be a valuable connection in my future. She is in charge of the communications department of a large Parisian department store.

So in my last email to Madame, I mentioned the column to her. I told her that I will be writing generally about my experiences, no names mentioned, but that I would like to know if this bothers her.

My brother says I'm being dramatic. The lump grows. Should I have avoided saying anything?

I'm told an old friend is unhappy with me. We had plans for Paris last year, when I took off for Ryerson instead, and now I'm taking off on my own.

I can't help but need my independance. The lump grows.

I feel like a little girl. Teary eyed. Frustrated with not knowing all the answers.

The tears don't flow, but I feel the lump grow.