It's me again. I guess you remember me, though it's a while since we last talked. I'm really bad like that -- during the day, I just forget, and it's like you're locked away in a little box inside me. You only come out when it's convenient, usually before exams or when I'm feeling ill, and that's not how it should be. Unfortunately, it is.
I wanted to tell you about how lonely I am. It's like I'm always on my own -- and more now, because there are people who are telling me I'm immature, people who aren't talking to me because they think I'm weird, people who just don't know who I am, and people who aren't exactly unfriendly but they don't really bother because they've got their own groups and that's enough, they don't need me. They don't think about me, there on the outside, because it's not really relevant.
I know you told me that whenever I was alone I could come to you, and yet sometimes I don't want to admit that I'm lonely and I can't bear it any more -- I don't want to admit that my music and my writing and my dancing isn't enough to sustain me. Sometimes, just sometimes, there are unrealised dreams that writing about and reading about isn't enough. It's not enough.
But someone told me yetserday that I should come and tell you, so here I am. I thought I'd tell you everything, even though I've cried so much while pouring out my troubles. I wonder if you're like other people, and you don't know how to deal with it. But I'm sure your other children are just as bad, right? Or worse. I may cry a lot but I know people who do it more.
I was wondering if you could help me with this. I don't want to be a trouble, but it's like I said: you told me I should always come to you with problems. I've got a lot of problems. I guess that means I should come to you a lot but I don't; they just build up and up until they overflow and I spend all night crying and talking to you and hoping that will help.
I'm not looking for miracles. Or rather, I'm not looking for major miracles, just something that'll help me get along and not feel so bad. Send me something that will keep me going, a friend who understands me and someone to whom I can tell my secrets; a shoulder to cry on, Daddy, that would be good.