The Letter

March 23, 2006: I wrote a letter. The letter was to me. The letter was to my mother. This is that letter:

"To Mother:
It's annoying to have people think they know who you really are when they really don't know you at all. Misinterpretations provide people with a lack of understanding and the inability to decipher through the person you are and the one presented to the world. It's tiring to have others run your life for you. It's not fun being alone; it's even less fun when you've been alone your whole life. What sucks is when you finally feel capable of coming out of your shell and experiencing life, those around you push you back in, whether accidentally or on purpose.
Traumatic events shape the rest of your life. It sucks but it's true and it's hard to change the person you've become after that experience. Those memories are forever ingrained in your head. The way you see the world will never change even if you try hard to see it differently. The way you feel about situations will never change also. No psychologist can help, and screw talking. No one can understand you and they don't want to, for that would put a damper on their lives; besides, why would you want to bring them down too; therefore, the facade works for those around you but in the end you're always alone.
Good childhood memories unfortunately tend to fade but those you wish would go away, stay forever. Your life revolves around them as much as you wish it would not.
It seems good to say, "it's time to say goodbye to the person you knew or thought you knew and hello to the person trapped inside". I'm tired of playing at being happy but for all of you, I will continue to do so. Hell, no one wants to be around you if you're not.
So mom, this is what has become of me. I feel empty yet don't know why. I barely can remember your face. Only pictures remind me of what you looked like and that one moment in time has regretfully made me into who I am today. It shouldn't have lasted this long, this ache. Isn't 12 years enough. Guess not.
It's hard knowing no one understands you and no one cares to.
Your blood is still on my fingers. It has remained since."

This letter in a way is still true to me but to a certain extent, it is now fiction.

Almost 3 years ago I wrote this letter.
I still miss you mom.