I met him in the midnight of my life. I had just turned thirteen years old.
I am writing this because my first love was my life teacher and also the closet thing to a father that I've ever had. I've tried to write this story many times. I've written it on her back, then washed it away. I've written it in letters, postcards, diary entries, all of which are now burned or shredded. I used to shout it inside my own head, trying to reconcile my feelings in the safest place I knew, before deciding that simply waiting for better circumstances would be best.
Now I'm in New York City, and everything is far away, except for my best friend and lover who I am living with. I can finally think.
I can be depressed when I fucking want to, skip meals, smoke weed, and steal booze from our roommates. I can go wherever I to go and take all day getting there. I can stand on a bridge and look out at the sea while the sun is setting. As the sky darkens, I can hug my girlfriend without saying goodbye. I can waste my own money on pizza, I can afford not to be friendly to my classmates, and chose not to answer the damn phone.
This is the fun part. But I've had a lot of not-fun parts too, and it's impossible to forget them. Thinking about my pre-college life and my family brings up a lot anger and grief. But I can't think about the past five years without also remembering Cohen. And that makes it easier to keep going.
YOU ARE READING
In The Midnight of My Life
RandomPretty much as autobiographical as you can get. Mainly focusing on my relationship with one of my teachers in high school. I don't expect many people to read this, it's mostly here for me to work out my thoughts.
