All I Want Is A Friend

Letter 3 - Aubree

Letter 3          

Dear Ramsey,

            Welcome back. If you’re reading these, then I want to hug you. I don’t think anyone has ever, ever, cared about what I had to say, and here you are, 3 letters and 1,568 words later and you’re still reading. Am I that interesting? Or are you just reading these because you feel bad for me? I hope it’s the first option, because I don’t want you to feel bad for me. I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of bad things happen to you in your life. I don’t feel bad for you. Well, actually, I don’t feel bad for anyone. Everyone struggles. Don’t try and argue with me on that, you know that I’m right. Every single person has gone through a rough patch in their life. Maybe you’re in a rough patch right now, or maybe that’s in your past, or maybe it’s even in your future. I don’t know much, but I do know one thing; no one has a perfect life.

            Let’s continue with my life, shall we? Ah, the good ole middle school years. That was sarcastic. I feel I should say that because otherwise you may think that my middle school years were good. They weren’t. Remember all those anxiety attacks I had back in fifth grade? They were for good reason. Not only did they (they meaning the bullies, to clear that up) start saying things to my face again, but they started hitting me. Not full on punching, but they would smack the books out of my hands or trip me while I was walking down the hall or ‘accidentally’ push me into my locker, then shut it. This didn’t bother me as much as the things they said to my face.

            Oh Ramsey, they were horrible. They would call me ugly, and freak, and fat, and stupid. I don’t know why, I wasn’t fat. I may have been ugly but hey, they weren’t the prettiest or most handsome people to ever walk Earth. It wasn’t fair. I hated myself. Every day that I woke up, my self-esteem would be ten points less than it was before. Before the first semester was over, my self-esteem was zero. It still is, actually, to this day. You don’t mind though, do you? I’m not going to complain all the time about how ugly or stupid I am. I promise. How’s your self-esteem? Boy’s usually have high self-esteem, don’t they? I’m no boy expert, but I know more than some of them are overly-cocky (even when they have nothing to be cocky about).

            In seventh grade, I made a friend. An honest-to-God, friend. He would come to my house and we would watch movies and Grandma would make us cookies and we would laugh and I was happy. Almost. He was a year older than I was, but he was in the same grade. I kissed him once. Well actually, he kissed me, when we were watching a movie. I think it was a scary movie, because we were huddled under a blanket with pillows ready to shield our faces. Well, I was anyways. He told me that all the people who had ever made fun of me were stupid themselves, because I was the most amazing, and beautiful girl he had ever met.

            The next year, he was still my friend, and I wasn’t so sad. I got my first period on the last day of eight grade. I bled. A lot, and all over the place. My only friend, who was a boy, his name was Jackson, came into the girl’s bathroom just to calm me down. His Mom picked me and him up early, equipped with pads and a towel to it on until she could bring me home. I cried and cried and Jackson held me until I stopped. That was the second time he kissed me, which shifted something inside of my brain. I realized that I liked Jackson, more than just a friend.

            I liked him, a lot. I miss him, still to this day. He was my friend for almost two years, but that’s for another letter, don’t you think? I want to thank you for reading this letter, which turned out to be a little long. For that I apologize. But I want you to know that occasionally, Jackson and I talk. Nothing, nowhere close, to the way we were before, and that makes me really, really sad. I miss him. He was the only friend I ever had. Maybe you could be my friend? Then, I can say I’ve had two friends. That’s a little depressing, no? I can count, on one hand, how many friends I’ve had, but I can’t count on my fingers and toes how many people who’ve hated me. Thanks for sticking with me for this long.

Thanks for listening,

                                                Aubree