Thirteen

It’s impossible not to smile: the rolled up trousers, the jackets and cardigans, the good humour. Very British.

I’m there, second from the right, leaning on my friend L’s shoulder as she struggled with her dog. We were on a week’s holiday by the sea with her parents, but I have no recollection at all of the family in this photo. They were probably in a neighbouring caravan and we just fell into doing things together - there was an easy-going camaraderie in these holiday friendships.

I couldn’t have been more than thirteen. But oh, I wince at that come-hither pose which I struck for the camera. I was old enough to understand the frightening necessity of being considered attractive.

It seemed a losing battle. I was ill at ease in my rapidly changing body. Emotionally I was floundering. A pattern was set for the next couple of decades; only in my forties would I really begin to get glimpses of life's grace and mystery. But that's a topic for another post.

So. Could anything have been said to make it easier?

If I were to reach out to this thirteen year old, I would tell her to keep both feet firmly on the ground and face the camera full on. I’d tell her that comparing herself to others shrivels the soul and throws up barriers, and that she truly didn’t need to go trawling for acceptance. She was beautiful and loved, whatever she or anyone else thought.

I'd say that when her thoughts won't give her any peace she needs to stop thinking and do something. Anything that works. Washing the kitchen floor is good. So is talking to a friend.

I'd warn her too about her perfectionism. Making mistakes is part of the package. Her job was to explore and develop those things which gave her joy. Singing would be a place to start .... she had a good voice.

I'd tell her to express her compassion. To look after herself physically and spiritually. To ask for help and to give it. To learn when to say yes. And, sometimes, to know when enough was enough and walk away.

Would the pep talk help? Probably not, but that wouldn't stop me. She would need to hear it. And so do I. Still.

What would I tell her about love, relationships and sex? Don't know. After all these years I'm still confused. I haven't cracked this one. All I know is that whatever happens she should attempt to keep her heart open. Years of numbness set in when I let mine close, when I tried to anaesthetise pain and grief. It doesn't feel like it at the time, you believe you are protecting yourself from more pain, but you're not. I try not to do that now. Maybe that's what I'd tell her.

L and I were inseparable until we reached sixteen. Then she met a biker who looked a little like John Travolta in Grease. Shortly afterwards she left school and got married. We lost touch.

I wonder how her life has been.