[not for kids, please look away if you are under 13 (pardon if you know me personally)] In response to this. https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1157177878 I’m sorry, North. I’m really sorry. You were such a good friend. And… I don’t have many of those. I don’t want to make this a sob confession or some kind of childish stuff like attention-seeking children on this website. But please. If you or anybody are reading this, it isn’t for attention. I just… need to pour it out. I’m not happy. I’m not the person you see me as. I am not Bin. Or Lil. Or Tari. I’m a thirteen-year old who suffers from being mature. You don’t understand what I’ve seen. Why I’m even acting like this. Because ‘desolate agony’ as I say so often, is my life. I am alert every single moment of every single day. I can’t let my guard down. People can’t touch me without myself freaking out. I am scared of people who are from different places, different cultures, different races. I’m scared of myself. It’s disgusting. I find myself disgusting. Every day I go to school and I get bullied. Every day. K (as I will call them on here, for privacy reasons) is constantly there, and I keep reporting him, every time, and he just… breaks me. My voice is silenced by K every day. He tells people I’m disgusting. Half the people in my 7th-grade class hate me. In the pandemic, I had so much trouble. Not with bullying. I got no exercise, put on weight, got depression, and considered ending it all. My weight is back to normal now. My depression is… faded. Fading. That last bit… not so much. And I don’t know what to do. My anxiety has been getting worse. I don’t want to tell my parents yet, since they’re getting a divorce soon, and they’ve got enough to do. I can’t trust my Dad. I can’t trust my grandparents. I’m so sorry North. That I can’t keep up this happy facade for you. I want you to stay. And that’s a guilty, selfish thing about me. But I can’t stop you. … There is something I need to confess. My parent will be going separate ways, and so I may move from where I am in Washington. If everything goes bad with Trump, we may move to a place such as Canada. (Trump supporters, don’t you dare say anything about this.) I know we were both excited about you moving to Seattle. Or at least, it seemed like it. I didn’t have the heart to tell you. I don’t have a heart. And I mean that metaphorically. Because I am disgusted by the fact that, somehow, I’m not crying over this. That I write this out of obligation, out of a selfish need to release. It isn’t out of sympathy. Or for comfort. I am disgusting. And I’m sorry…. I know the apologies all sound hollow, now after I’ve told you this. I’m sorry I can’t be good enough. I’m sorry that I can’t feel for you. I don’t know if it’s real or not. Or if I’m just faking. I don’t know what or who I am anymore. I probably should get a diagnosis or something. … I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll be waiting. One day or another. Bye, North.
The image is a phrase I use lightly. Not today. I’ll miss you, North.
