Bird Furious

Hello.

I haven’t talked in quite some time.

I feel like I’m being strangled and there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe not strangled. This feeling in my chest that makes it hard to breathe is more like suffocation— like everything I have to do on top of living is weighing on my chest, heavier and heavier, like whenever it was when they’d crush people rock by rock to execute them. 

It’s not just that. I feel so alone. 

I’m not alone and I know it. I know there are people who would talk to me and support me, online and in real life. But somehow I can’t seem to reach out. 

Especially to my parents. 

I feel like such a disappointment. I feel like everything’s reversed— I used to think I was so smart, so incredible, and so strong in my faith. I used to think I was just as good as everybody else. 

I’m not. 

I don’t have the energy to do anything I should be doing, like volleyball, or practicing my oboe, or doing anything else that would make them proud of me. Everyone else in my Young Women’s class is doing something— martial arts, volleyball, music. 

I work at a custard place. 

I’m never going to end up anywhere, and scud that hurts. I’ve let my novel grow cold (writing being the only thing I might actually do). I’ve let my oboe grow cold (after we bought it for a lot of money). I’ve let volleyball grow cold (knowing my chances of getting into the school I want are slim without extracurriculars). 

And I just want a hug.