Dear best friend,
I’ve started writing letters. Long ones, short ones, ones with only one sentence. I did it because my therapist told me to. Years ago, back when I didn’t feel the need to. I guess that changed too. I usually hate change because most of the time my life ends up getting bad again. Turns out I was right to hate change. I was ripped away from all of my friends and put into a place that has given me the so-called “dream life”, but at what cost? How long until the dream wears off and I realize that even though I find a few friends here, I am completely alone? I feel like a polar bear in Texas. I’m not meant to be here. These people aren't my people, these teachers aren’t my teachers, this house isn’t my home; it's just a house, and I refuse to call it either. I'm not used to people being nice to everyone; it’s honestly concerning to me the amount of acceptance there is here. Maybe it’s just because I’m not used to what it's like here, but I hate to say it; I miss the shithole of public school. I grew up there; I had my first kiss there, my first heartbreak, my first friends, my first time learning how to play on the monkey bars. I created a life there, a family there. And now I'm just expected to start all over, picking up the pieces of myself while mourning the ones I left with you? The truth is, I don’t know how to start over, because I cut my hand while picking up the shattered bits of glass that were once my identity, and only my friends will be able to fix it. So I will sit and bleed my pain and attempt to put it into words while the veil I wear in grief keeps getting in the way of my paper. And I am now lonely, because I don’t quite know what to do with the emptiness. So until then, I will write my letters and hope that one day I will be brave enough to send them.
-With love & pain, your ride or die, Sam.
