May 22, 2015

Dear eighteen year old me, This is 16 year old you. Happy birthday, kid. I can't believe we made it. Fuck, there were so many times I wanted to give up and just fucking die. I guess being six feet under is so much easier than being six feet on top of the world. How are you? How's life? How's mom? Grandma and grandpa? The boys? Is Abraham still around? Does dad still call? I don't know if you remember (because our mind has a tendency to forget about certain memories) but yesterday we stood in front of Matthew's mom, our mom, Sana, and his aunt getting yelled at. And while I was standing there, I realized that I needed help. I need to fix myself. And maybe that means giving up sports for a bit. Maybe that means being alone for a while. I love him. God, I love him so much. So much, sometimes I feel like I'm going to die. I've never felt so happy before. I'm fucking addicted, 18-us. I'm fucking addicted. Please, please, don't let this be some sort of fucked up hallucination. Don't let this be a dream. But I think I might have to let him go for a bit. Just so I can fix myself enough for him. ... So tell me, did I let him go? Or is he still around? What's going on between you two? Have we decided to go to the Naval Academy or Suny Maritime College? Are we the C.O. of the 2016-2017 N.J.R.O.T.C. school year? Is it everything I dreamed it would be? Please, please tell me. I'm hanging on a thread over an endless abyss. I'm running out of reasons again, 18-us. I'm not giving up. I'm just finding it really hard to continue to live. Forever, 16 year old you.