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I don’t know what to do. You ask me what’s wrong, and I want to tell you, but I know that if I do, you’ll tell me to stop being dramatic. You’re my dad, aren’t you supposed to care? Aren’t I supposed to be your princess? Or at least something to you?
You say that you “worry” about me, but somehow that “worry” doesn’t kick in until 1045 at night when I haven’t called or texted you or seen you since 8 that morning. How does that work, dad? Do you really care, at all? Or do you want to seem to care so that I can pass it on to mom so she thinks your more responsible and might stop suing you?
Why do you all have these underlying agendas? Is that a normal thing? Do most people have those? Should I just expect that everyone wants something from me? Or that everything they do, they do for their own benefit? I don’t want to think like that. I don’t want to be a cynical teenage girl. I want to believe in fairy tales and godmothers and true love and all that stuff. I don’t want them to be real, I don’t care. I just want to be able to believe in them. I want that shred of hope. Is that too much to ask?
I guess it is. I should’ve known by now that no one will ever really care about me. At least not enough to care about all of me. They love me when I’m laughing with them, they love me when I give them things, they love me when I feel bad for them, or listen to their problems, or make them feel like they might be helping me with mine. But they don’t want to know all of me.
They don’t want to know the terrible, terrible ugly things I do and think and say under my breath. They want to make jokes about me and about the things I say and laugh with me, or even at me, because for some reason, everyone assumes that I’m the kind of person who can take those jokes. Why? I don’t understand.
I’m just like all of you. I don’t like it when people joke about me being stupid or ugly or young or immature or anything. I’ll take it, and I’ll laugh with you for a while, but it gets to a point where I can’t do it anymore. And then I’ll go home and I’ll cry for a bit, and the next day I’ll laugh at myself for crying, because why would I ever have a reason for crying? It’s not like my feelings are significant enough for me to need to cry about them, or express them, or even feel them.
All I’m here for is entertainment. I’m here to make you laugh, to be laughed at, and to laugh with. I’m here to get you heart felt birthday presents and smile at the right times and cry at the right times.
Because it’s okay for me to cry if someone is leaving, and it’s okay for me to cry for someone else, or for something sad that I see, but as soon as I cry for myself, I’m being selfish, or stupid, or dramatic. And even worse? I believe that.
I believe every single terrible thing my step mom has ever told me. I believe that I’m too fat, I believe that I have curves in the wrong places, that I’m a jealous bitch, that I envy other people and that I’ll do anything to sabotage them and get what I want. I believe that I love causing problems for others and I believe that I’m truly a terrible person, deep, deep down, because what else could be true?
I don’t feel envious, and I don’t feel jealous, and I try to be good, I really do, but I’m not, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve been told that as long as I’m pleased with myself, that’s all that matters, but that’s not all that matters.
How am I supposed to be a fair judge of my own character and my own appearance? I’m biased towards myself, I have to be. Isn’t everyone? I need to hear from someone else what I’m doing wrong, so that I can fix it. And don’t tell me that I’m not doing anything wrong, because I know that’s a lie.
I guess that’s why I get so upset sometimes, and why I was so upset today. I love that my friends think that I’m secure enough in myself to joke about me the way they do, but each time they say one of those jokes a teeny tiny bit that hits…[Read more]

Dear You,
I wish I could hold onto that look in your eyes when you said goodbye today.
I wish I could never forget how long you took to turn around.
I wish I could burn a picture of your smile into my mind and never forget it.
I wish we weren’t so hopeless.

What if I turned around and told you the truth? What if the next time your face was three inches from mine, I tilted my head, closed my eyes, and kissed you?
What if I wasn’t kidding about staying up all night watching movies together?
What if my jokes aren’t jokes?
What if I really truly want to be with you?
What if you weren’t going away to college next year?
Would that change anything?
Would it?

for little girls, their dad needs to be their prince. the first man they’ll ever love, the epitome of everything they want in a husband. by the time i was 15, that illusion had shattered into a billion tiny little pieces. and not the kind of pieces that you can look into an see a bit of a reflection, or you can sort of guess what used to be there. this was worse. this was a broken vase lying on the ground. this was a thousand roman soldiers marching over it in square formation. this was a nuclear bomb exploding on every single little piece until even the atoms had ceased to exist. it was like waking up from a long dream, and not recognizing anyone around you. Not their faces, their voices, their characters. Everything you had ever believed was gone.

I miss being with you, in the simplest sense of the word. I miss spending time with you, taking silly pictures and goofing off. I miss being able to hug you, kiss you, love you. I know it’s no excuse, but I’m sorry for what I did, I had too much going on. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle the responsibility of having one more person counting on me.