To a friend you know who you are
Even thou I know you will never probably read this, I'm writing it anyway. You know, the last time we talked and how after your latest rant you asked if I had any questions, comments, concerns, or things to say. Well I thought about it and I do have some things to say. I am thankful for the things I have, people I know. I'm thankful, I'm not dead or sick or homeless or abused or mentally retard. But from what I know of *IT* (or as some would call it myself but to me it doesn't seem so anymore) it's not enough and doesn't seem like it ever will be. You're probably just sick and tired of me pushing my so called problems on you. Problems that to you and other people aren't as big as *IT* makes them be. Because to me it seems *IT* just can't seem to make anything less than absolutely hard for me to comprehend and understand. Never mind my so called academic intelligence, it does nothing to help a person with the maturity of a first-grader and the courage of an elephant surrounded by mice. One who can't seem to take great advice due to the fact that she's grown up so far with really no one helping her or really caring about the problems that seem apparent only to her. And now I'm going to write something I don't think I've ever said not jokingly or in a breakdown (be it a sad one with my pretty tears or an angry one where nothing seems to matter anymore or both) and I'm pretty sure I won't again anytime soon. The fact that you've been right all along something isn't mentally right with me (and I don't need a psychotherapist to figure that out) and you're the only one that's seem to notice. I mean, I know everyone can pretty much see through my mask but they always just see another one. It's not like I hide *IT* as well as I did when I was little. So sorry for wasting your life with mine. I'm not trying to guilt you (that's my mommy's job) or anything. I just thought you'd want to know the answers to the questions, you were asking me between the lines.
Because I do know that I think deep inside I'm not worth my life. I do know that for the longest without knowing I've been giving up on myself. The fact that I'm not strong enough to help myself, so I make-up people to help but it never seems to work cause I somehow don't let it. I do know that I'm only fourteen years old and that if I can't handle *IT* and this that I will never be able to handle the real world surrounding my own. I know I push everyone away (especially new ones that could be of much help, if I wasn't scared of the tiniest pain) cause I know soon they will have to go on with their lives. I know you think it's wrong of me not to appreciate the family I have. I do, but can't truly cause they will never understand and I can't ever seem to explain it to them. To tell the truth, even while you're mad at me I feel more in tune with you somehow. I'd like to write three last things, kay. First, if souls are real, I'd have to say mine must be cracking or in a trillion pieces already. Two, thank you for understanding *IT* more than I could and putting up with more than a normal person can put up with (maybe you're the one from outer space, a baby from the gods you said). Finally, I have to add this in, however depressing and emo this may sound to you (thou it is either only truth) this is not a suicide note because I may be insane enough but I am too terrified of Death to even try.
Love yes love since you are still the bestest friend in the whole square world and the older sister I've never had (even if I may be older) so love,
Stapes and some new friends
Arterioles, Basiliar, plus Femoral