Letter Home

October 16, 2007
By
Dear Mom,
Writing is more than a form of communication. It is a way of life. When breathing is too hard, writing sustains. It fills the lungs and cleanses toxins. When I write, the toxins are no long in my bloodstream. They are swimming in the ink drying on the paper. Sometimes I hear them crying out for my blood. They need me to live like I need to write.
I dream that you read what I write, but your reaction when you finally understand haunts my nightmares. But you need to know.
There's so much I wish you knew. I wish you knew that I smoke, drink, and listen to "bad" music not to spite you or because I've been corrupted, but because it helps. It helps in a way that you never could.
We're both caught up in our separate worlds. We can never meet in the middle because from you I get my obstinacy. There is no negotiation to be made; we can't even agree to disagree. It's your way, no highway option. It feels like you don't care. Do you? Or are you so selfish that you can't care about anyone but yourself and your beliefs? Is that more important to you than I am?
Maybe I am also selfish. Maybe it's a selfish vice to expect love and affection from your parents. If so, I hope you don't expect an apology from me.





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