About: it's her name. I met her this year (freshman year). She's great, and fun and nice and all that other good shit.
Dear Sam,
How am I going to go about writing this? I haven't added anything to this in a really long time.
I feel like I, personally, am in a good place. I feel okay, usually, when I'm not thinking. When I'm with you and our friends.
You are not in a good place, often times. This is not only because of your imbalanced chemistry making you anxious and depressed, but also to your parents not being good or proper parents in any way, shape, or form.
It sucks. I don't like that I can't help. The only thing I can do is passive aggressively shit talk your parents and comfort you. I'm not a person who talks about things and comforts. I'd like to describe myself as someone who fixes shit. But I'm getting my practice in, because I physically and legally cannot fight your parents (or give you drugs that fix your chemicals, sorry).
So really, what am I to say?
Four more years. Your parents try shit, you live with me now. Call me at 2 am and cry and rant, if I don't pick up leave a message or blow up my phone. Don't kill yourself. Promise me that much. You can runaway or never talk to me again, it's okay, I'll forgive you. But don't kill yourself.
You're going to be okay.
We all are.
Sincerely, your lunch buddy
YOU ARE READING
One More Letter
RandomThis isn't a story, just a collection of letters to people. Sounds strange? Yeah I know. Let me tell you a little story: Once upon a time, there was me. I was very messed up, in many ways. I had anxiety, depression, and suicidal thoughts. But, then...
