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On my first day of high school, our teacher made us write a letter.
A letter he probably thought would help the group of lost, angsty teenagers in front of him start thinking about the future. To figure ourselves out.
He meant well, I guess. But honestly, we weren't ready to sit down and reflect on our future selves. Most of just wanted to chew gum in class and draw dicks in each others' notebooks.
I never handed the finished letter in. I just folded it really small, and shoved it into my pocket after class.
This letter was so much more than just a task in class.
That letter broke my family.
I was never one to hold back. Not on the football field, not at truth or dare and I had an especially hard time holding back my emotions. They say boys don't cry, but I was the kid who cried in the shop because mum wouldn't get me the chocolate milk.
I broke my pencil twice during the hour allocated to write the letter. The sentences dragged on, the tip pressing harder and harder into the sheet of paper.
I hate my sister.
My mum found the letter when she was doing laundry. The letter fell out as she was putting the trousers in the wash.
I don't think my heart has ever broken so fast in my life. It's been years since then, but it still feels like yesterday.
I don't actually hate my sister. I don't hate my parents, either. Only occasionally. But that's normal, isn't it? Every teenager does sometimes.
I don't think my mother understands that, though. I don't think she'll ever forget about the horrible things I wrote in that classroom. And I guess I shouldn't blame her.
But it always seems easier to do just that. To blame others. And most people believe it, anyway. They believe that I'm fucked up because my family is fucked up. And my family is fucked up because whoever created the fucked up universe is fucked up.
A neverending circle of fucked up-ness.
Welcome to the Schistad circus.
Popcorn?
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