That one time I had an anxiety attack
eighteen.
the number of years I’ve been growing.
the number of years I have had to attempt to salvage my relationship with my brother.
the number of years I should have grown more appreciative of my mom and dad.
the number of years it should have taken to become nice, and someone I would want to be around.
I feel like I’ve failed.
I feel that I talk the talk but I don’t walk the walk.
I’m that girl that talks big games, but does nothing about it.
I’m turning 18 in a matter of hours and I am sitting in my bedroom, by myself writting this because I am grounded. I shouldn’t be here right now.
I wish I could have said…
18 is the number of years I was best friends with my brother and my mom.
The number of times my dad and I went to work together one month.
The number of times I’ve made my parents proud, not dissapointed.
I wish a lot of things, I will make that wish tomorrow.
I’ve gone through a lot of shit this year, a lot.
I’ve been broken, I’ve felt attacked, I’ve felt lonely, I’ve felt embarrassed, I’ve felt torn, I’ve been petrified, I’ve been hopeless… I’ve been everything.
I want this next year to be different, I want to be happy.. all the time… no matter what.
I want to be the best friend someone could have, the best at what she does and the girl people look up too.
I can only hope.
Happy Birthday to me.
