The Strangers Project

Entry #0263

Every day, I live in your house, and I follow your rules, and I cook your food, and I grow up slowly. You ask me for thanks. Thanks for what? Thanks for not having a job, thanks for the second hand smoke, or thanks for the smoking during your pregnancy with me that has messed up my lungs, thanks for sleeping all day and thanks for never being proud of me for one thing, ever? Oh, yeah, thanks for yelling at me whenever you’re not high, and thanks for reminding me how different I am, and how you have no idea where I could have ever gotten it from.

Yeah, I’m sure different. I play five instruments, and I’m fourteen. I’m an artist. I love to cook. I’m in advanced classes, two years ahead in math and one year ahead in science. I’ve pushed myself my whole life to make you proud of me.

Yeah, you never beat me.
But you sure let my sister beat me.

And I remember the day where you yelled at me so loudly that you spit on me. I just stood my ground. What were you talking about? Oh, yeah, how you’re the parent and I’m not. Is that why I take care of myself? I cook my own food, dress myself, do my homework without help because you’re not smart enough to help me (If you went to college you could) and pack my own lunches, clean up dishes, and still fit in time for my own pleasure?

I heard a fact that twelve newborns are given to the wrong parents each day, how sad is that? And yet, I wonder if I was the one in twelve on my birthday that was?

But it can’t be true. I have your eyes, I have your face, I have your voice, and sometimes I have your anger.

But I swear I will never act like you, never be anything like you. I wish I had been one of those twelve and was sent away to a happy, peaceful life where I could have never known you. Where you could have never known me. But I know that then, another child would have taken my place.

And I would not wish that on anybody, mother.

Yeah, this scar on my wrist? It was never a cat scratch. Just be glad you haven’t seen the ones on my ankle. I know you wouldn’t be happy about them. But then again, when are you ever happy about anything I do?

Entry #0259

Although I was only tired and hungry, my face must have shown more than that. Out of nowhere, this boy walked up and said, “Yes, sometimes life is pretty hard and rotten, but it’ll pass. Things will get better, just wait and see. Meanwhile, this always helps.”

He hands me a cupcake and walks away before I can say anything.

Years later, I still don’t know who you are, but I’ve been wanting to find a way to say thank you.

Entry #0110

All my life I have been called a freak for my skin. I have eczema. Lame, right? It’s an emotional response. When I get angry or stressed, my skin flares up and turns into red, painful, embarrassing, overbearing rash. I have no control over it.

Years of torture, pain and humiliation have taught me to be strong, patient and to love myself regardless of the world. Now that I have come to terms with that, my father comments on my ”muffin top” calling me fat and asking me if I really need to eat that. Hurdle number two, coming right up.

Entry #0108

I wanted to believe there was more to me than meets the eye. Like I could be bigger and badder than anyone out there. I could come out on top, not in the nasty sense. But in the sense that I’d be someone who people could look up to. But I guess it doesn’t seem to matter. I care too much about what people think, I have lost myself. People see me for the disease I bare on my arms, the disease I’m trying to rid myself of without medicine. They call me beautiful, they call me brave, stupid, and strong. While they can see the pain, they don’t have to feel it. It’s easy to feel bad for someone, but you know you wouldn’t want to be in their shoes anyway…