All I Want Is A Friend

Letter 2 - Aubree

Letter 2

Dear Ramsey, 

            Last letter was a little sad, no? Well if you’re going to continue reading these (or start) then I thank you. No one else has taken the time to even hear what I have to say. My whole life, I had been ignored (unless I was being made fun of), but now I feel like I have someone, even if you really are nobody. I hope you are reading these, because otherwise, this would be useless, right?

            To continue where I left off in the last letter, I’ll start in third grade. I know that I already said it, but I was bullied. In third grade, it got progressively worse. I avoided all contact with anyone my age. Up to that point, I’d never been to a birthday party, or had one myself. I had never worked with a partner that didn’t hate me for being alive. I had never played tag without the intention of being hurt. Let me explain. One time, when I was eight, a little girl in my class (the smallest second grader you’ve ever seen) asked me if I wanted to play tag. Why not? Well the reason is because while playing tag, it’s very easy to say that you pushed another person down on accident. I was never ‘it’, because someone would swoop in and volunteer to take my place, just so someone else could get the chance to knock me down. I went home that day and cried and cried. I thought things were changing, but I was so wrong.

            When I was nine, the pills got them best of my mother and she OD’d. Where else could I go? I was alone, and scared. I called 911. The operator was icy and only upset me more. When the police and ambulance showed up, they told me they had tracked down my Mom’s mom, and I was going to live with her. I was happy because she lived in a different state, which meant I would be going to a different school. Maybe the bullying would stop and I could be a normal little girl who was happy. But no, of course not.

            When I moved in with my Grandma, things only got worse. Now, the teacher hated me as well. I stared to get pushed down on a regular basis. They would smack my head into the water fountain as I was just trying to get a drink. I didn’t tell my grandmother, and I couldn’t tell me teacher. I think my teacher would call me up to write on the board just so the other kids could trip me as I walked past. I hope you know that I ignored all of them. I also hope you know that this just made them madder.

            Oh, fifth grade. My last year of elementary school. As a normal child, I was scared out of my mind to start middle school. So scared, in fact, that I had regular anxiety attacks over it. Some were at school, which only made kids make fun of me (but freaked out the teacher), and others were at home. My chest would tighten, tears would stream down my face, and I would shake. I would shake, and shake, and shake so bad that I could see straight. Grandma didn’t know what to do with me. She would hold me and mumble things into the top of my head. I think I blamed myself for all the attacks. I would work myself up and not be able to come back down.

            Anyways, back to fifth grade. Aside from the attacks, this year was okay. Yes, I was still made fun of, but now it became more secretive. I was okay with that. As long as they weren’t saying it to my face, behind my back was alright. I sat alone at lunch, I dreaded recess, and group activities were hell. I was a lot happier, however, because I was left alone. Nobody tripped me as I walked past. Nobody laughed at me when I read a sentence out loud. Nobody said anything to me. That was the one thing I had wished for since first grade.

            That’s already up to when I was ten, I still have seven more years to cover. I’m starting to think that I may have gotten in over my head with these letters. You like them, don’t you Ramsey? Why were you named Ramsey? I don’t know why I got the name that I have. All I know is it’s the only thing I have left that belonged to my mother. My middle name, Renee, belonged to my father, so I cherish it just as much as my first. Some people hate their names, but me? I love mine, because it belonged to my parents.

            Thanks for listening,

                                                Aubree