Text #109.
April 17, 8:58 pm.
Seeing our old pictures makes my eyes blurry from the tears. You changed so much. So much. You've disappointed me in every single way. If you should know, I miss how things used to be. I miss them so freaking much.
Text #110.
April 18, 9:51 pm.
I think I need to learn how to love myself more. Because, no, I don't live myself. It's quite the contrary. Whenever someone asks me of an adjective that I think describes me, I think of the words screwed up. I need take long showers to wash all of the self-hate that has settled into my skin, learn to love the parts of my body that no one claps for. I don't imagine myself loving who I am. But I have to try it. I have to.
Text #111.
April 19, 11:09 pm.
Yesterday I was kind of feeling really sad. Like, I couldn't do anything correctly and it felt like everything I touched tumbled down. I felt angry at myself for doing that. I don't know exactly how to explain it, but to put it in words, I guess I could say that I was angry at myself for doing everything wrong. For saying the wrong things and doing the wrong things. I couldn't control that. It wasn't me. So to vent out all my anger, I ripped a piece of paper from my notebook and wrote down with every bit of strength I had: I wish I was never born.
After I was done, I kept looking at the paper. It didn't make sense. I wondered why was I born. I only did things wrong. I was a terrible daughter. I was a disappointment.
I just threw the piece of paper in my closet and shut it firmly. Today I was choosing an outfit to wear to go to the mall with Soph when I saw the same paper I wrote yesterday on the top of my drawer folded nicely. Frowning, I picked it up and read it once more.
My writing was still there: I wish I was never born. But my gaze traveled to below the sentence I wrote. It was another sentence written in a letter that I could recognize on the first instant. It read: well, I'm mighty glad you were.
It was dad's letter.