Real talk

Dear Bloggers, 

Please don’t let the end of the creative semester be the end of your writing. I have come to know you all in different ways and I love you. Yes, that’s right. I love you. You all mean so much to me and I am so glad to have met you. I have wept with you, felt the emotions that are portrayed through your writing. I felt the rawness of your words. I have felt the beauty and sadness that you have felt. I have felt my heart break with yours. Please keep writing. Know that I will be here to read it if you blog it. Lastly, I hope you have found your Paris. 

The Broken Teen 

I found Paris. Not the city in France, but a safe place where I am free to be myself, even if it is behind a keyboard.  Maybe someday I will be brave enough to stand before my peers and speak the words I am about to share. But for now, for now we will have to settle for typed words.

This is real talk. 

When my parents divorced, I didn’t get a new car, or a new phone. I didn’t get a cruise or a pony, when my parents divorced.  When my parents divorced, what I got was nightmares and therapy. When my parents divorced, I got medications and a teddy bear to keep me safe at night. 

This is real talk. 

When my parents were using drugs, I didn’t get a nice social worker to take me and place me in a nice home with a nice family. Instead, I got to live with invisible mommy and daddy. Invisible parents that cleaned messes that weren’t  there. Invisible parents that didn’t see how much we needed them. 

This is real talk. 

            I got my first kiss three days before eighth grade started, and let me tell you something, he missed the first time he leaned in to kiss me. When he finally got it right, it was sloppy and slobbery and disgusting. It was not magical. It was not at all how I pictured it. Instead of being under the moonlight in a park with someone I liked, it was at the bottom of a stair case in the dark with a boy I had only known for five minutes. 

This is real talk. 

I lost my virginity the following summer. To a boy I thought I loved. To a boy I thought loved me. Instead of showing me off as his girlfriend, he acted like he hated me in front of everyone else, and maybe he did. That should have been the first sign that is was a mistake. 

This is real talk.

That boy broke up with me saying he couldn’t handle the freaky mood swings of a girl with bipolar disorder. He broke up with me because of a mental disorder I could not control.  He didn’t speak to me again for a long time.

This is real talk.

In ninth grade, I came to school late one day, and standing right in front of me was the boy who broke my heart into a thousand pieces. 

This is real talk.

The first thing he said to me was that he was sorry. He was sorry about the baby. He was sorry he wasn’t there for me when it happened. He was sorry for how things ended.

This is real talk.

Through clenched teeth I lied to him. I told him I DIDN’T NEED HIM. 

This was not real talk. 

Time has moved me away from the past, but it still hurts. I am a different person now, but I still feel those things. 

This is real talk.