I just want someone to talk to.
Sometimes I get jealous when my friends talk about their family and how close they are. I want that. I want to see my mum’s face. I want to hear her voice telling me that I’m gonna be okay on my own. I want to curl up in her arms and feel comforted. I want to be able to turn to her and cry about how scared I am or how alone I feel. I want a mum that cares about me and wants to keep in track with me, that worries about me, that calls me six times a day because I didn’t let her know I’d be coming home late. I want to tell my dad that I got into the highest level of French, despite not having done it for two years AND being a freshman in university. I want him to be proud of me, for him to beam a smile and nod encouragingly. I want him to see that I got a job writing at the local newspaper company and that I’m now to be making $25.75/hour. I want him to see that I made the varsity tennis league. I want him to pat me on the back and tell me good job.
I haven’t spoken or seen my parents in three weeks. I leave them messages everyday. I tell them stories of Montreal and about how much I miss and love them. I see that they read them, but they never reply back. Part of me feels good that the toxic relationship we had is now distancing, but the other part rips my soul in half at the thought of losing the only people I have ever grown up knowing. They told me that they didn’t want me in their life, but I didn’t think that a parent could mean a thing like that. I didn’t think that two people who raised a child for eighteen years could let go so easily.
I’m not homesick, no. I’m people sick. I miss my friends. I miss the kids I would teach. I miss the old ladies telling me about their grandchildren at the senior centre I used to work at. I miss my teachers at high school that I could talk to about my problems. I miss Vancouver’s rain. I’m not homesick because my house was not a home. My family were just related to me. We lived in the same house and barely spoke a word to each other. This entire time, all these extra curricular programs, AP courses, playing eleven different instruments, coaching tennis, winning academic awards and scholarships, being nominated for valedictorian, and getting into McGill - it was all for them. I wanted to show them that I’m not a fuck up. I wanted them to see that I have something to prove and that I am smart. Now, as I sit in my room, distantly listening to my roommate talk to her mother with giant animate gestures and a bright smile on her face, I can’t help but feel a pang of loss sting at my heart. I look at the picture of my parents on my desk and I ask myself, who am I actually doing this for?
I can’t answer it.
I’m genuinely alone now, and I’m terrified.