Grace

Smells Like Adult Spirit (But Not Really)
2018-07-30 14:10:07 (UTC)

letter from my childhood self

my therapist wants me to write a letter from my childhood self to my current. here goes.

Big Grace,

Everything feels dark and slow and hard. Everyone sees right through me. I'm invisible except for when they want to brag about me. My bright blonde hair, or my deep brown eyes, my exceptional grades, my polite, sweet attitude. But I'm sad. I just sit in this room. With four pink walls that I wish looked different. I don't like skirts. I wish people would stop giving them to me. I wish someone would pay attention to me. I wish someone would ask how I was doing. I wish I didn't have to go to baseball games every weekend. I wish I could establish my own hobbies instead of being forced to watch my brothers. I wish I was seen as an equal sibling. I wish people would get to know me. Ask why I never speak. Ask why I stay in my room. Ask why I cry myself to sleep at night. Ask why I play with polly pockets alone. Ask why I am petrified to sleep alone. Ask why I have nightmare after nightmare. Ask why I'm terrified each and every day of dying in a house fire. Ask why each birthday and holiday I ask for security systems and smoke alarms. Why I dreamed up escape plans from the house. Why I shook each time I thought about getting in a car with my father. All I want is for someone to care. I want someone to notice, and no one has.

It seems like the only person there for me is myself. the people who seemed to care for me died, anyways. But no one asked how I was when they did. I just stifled my cries into my pillow, hoping no one would hear. At funerals, I again tried not to cry. My brothers having to be forced to comfort me. Forced. It wasn't second nature. I was never protected. Never cared for. I didn't know that I had to brush my teeth every night. No one told me. So now I have a bunch of cavities, and I keep worrying about the costs. Dad lost his job, so I know times are tough. But he doesn't talk about it. No one does.

Dad gets angry a lot. He slams doors and grunts. But over small things. Lost keys, lost wallet, someone cutting him off, driving. Mom hates it. She spits back words of hate and anger. And then they go their separate ways. He hit Ralph, our dog, the other day. I heard the hollow sounds of his fist hitting the puppys body. It was horrifying. I hope he never hits me like that.

I hope one day I can be happier. And forget all of whats happened to me. I hope I can be a kid, for once. Forgetting about money, and family and sports. I want to play without thinking. And live without worrying about my presence in a room. I hope one day I can be happy and stop crying all the time.

Love,

Small Grace




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