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I know deep inside, I am not the child my parents wanted. I can tell by the way they look into my eyes, because theirs glaze over, and by the way they don’t take anything I say too seriously. I can tell by the way they ask me about my future, and when I say, “I’m not sure but,” they lose interest in knowing. I can tell when they read the newspaper and see all the successful honor students at my school, they sigh, because my name isn’t printed in ink on the list. I feel like when I talk, they don’t really listen, because if they did, they would read between the lines and realize I wanted to kill myself a hundred times. I feel like when I’m upset I can no longer show emotion, because my mother has called me lazy too many times, and my dad has shook his head once too many. I feel like when I’m sitting on the couch when I get home from school, they are disgusted because I should be “doing something more productive.” So I don’t even feel like being comfortable in my own home anymore. I feel like I have to hide away in my room, because when I’m around them we don’t talk much anyways. I feel like I’m just another tab on their bill, especially when all they talk about is how they’re low on money and make it feel like it’s my fault. It’s just, I think they wanted someone more, someone better. I think they wanted a smart kid, with a great passion for life, who is nothing but happy, busy, talented, outgoing. They wanted someone who would for sure succeed more than they did in life, someone who could assure them assistance in their older years. But they got me, the kid who’s shy, the one who gets okay grades, the kid that doesn’t have many friends, the kid who’s sad most the time, the kid who has secretly attempted suicide. The kid who’s just another kid, not the kid who’s nothing like me. I’m sorry.

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