Well, I am like the black sheep; though I have never given any trouble. Isn’t that amazing! All I have done is try harder, be better everyday; all I have done is work hard to get away from everything I don’t like. I was always an honor student, while my brother was borderline failing. I graduated from one of the most prestigious institutions in the world, but brother finished high school. When he speaks, my mother listens; when I do, I am talking to myself. I never got even an acknowledgment for my success, whether it was an improvement or not; not even an “uh-huh.” That’s why I started acknowledging my own success, until I began to feel like a failure.

How can it be that you get to a point where nothing is good enough any more? At 16, all I wanted was to get to Chicago; and at 19, I was there. Then I wanted to get my diploma, and began wondering what would happen once I had it. I didn’t know if I’d have to drive to keep going. Last December (2003), I got my diploma; and my worse fears came to bear. I knew that I wanted more, but I couldn’t pick – because nothing was ever good enough.

So, I started one step at a time. First, I found a job; something temporary while I got myself together. Then I found a nice, new place to live. Later I decided I want to be a CPA before I go to law school; but an asshole with a gun, changed my plans for me. So, I decided to go back home and just find another school. I am home, no school is good enough, and I am miserable.

What really gets me is that my family loves to talk about my achievements to other people. But while I was at Chicago, they boisterously tried to convince me to leave. Now, they talk about it like they were all so supportive, like they still are; but I have never felt so alone. Not a one has asked me how I am doing since the incident. They just don’t care. Now, if it were one of my cousins, they’d be falling over themselves.

So, here I go. I’ll be 25 before I know, and I’ll still be walking my own path, without anyone to comfort me when I need it. I’ll keep crying in my room, like I did when my dad died, like I have done my whole life. And I’ll keep moving, ’till I can’t go any further. But something tells me I will be just as miserable.

It’s easy to say “I did/I help/I was there,” but how difficult is it to actually do it? I know they know this is how I feel, because I have told them all. My grandma and my uncle are the closest thing to supporters I have got; but I sure miss my grandfather. No one made me feel more valuable than him; and I don’t think there’ll ever be another one like him in my life.

I have to go. I am in no state to keep going. And this is already too much.