Look, I'm sorry, I think we don't exactly think the exact same things about each other. Or that's not the right way to word it. But we don't understand each other. We don't really know what's going on. We just have this wall post after wall post. When I was five years old I ran away from home. I didn't take anything with me, I just went out the door and ran away. My parents called the police. They thought I was kidnapped. They couldn't imagine why I would be unhappy at home. I had everything, didn't I? Food on the table, parents who were present and caring, my own room, what was missing?

What was missing, anyways? That was the question. But something felt so sterile, something felt so empty, I knew there was something missing and I ran away to find it. By now what felt like legions of neighbours were out and about, calling my name and looking for me. But I just hid under the bridge and played with some rocks I found on the ground. It wasn't very dark outside yet; it was that kind of in-between stage stuck in the awkward transition from day to night. An hour later, I just got up and walked back into my house. Only my mother was home, and she scolded me but hugged me, crying, "I'm so glad you're home" and such. And most of these stories end with a sort of realization of how grateful you should be of your parents. But I felt nothing. I've always felt nothing, I guess. That house was empty, not in the literal sense but in the figurative one, and there was nothing to fill that house with.

Flash forward ten years. I was in high school, and that incident was behind us all, but I kept thinking about it. What was missing? That motif that there was something missing felt ubiquitous. So I tried everything. I started dying my hair weird colors, wearing strange clothing, switching my group of friends constantly, eating anything, all to no avail because I still felt empty. Maybe this emptiness is a part of life, I thought. Or maybe it's just a part of me. I never tried to commit suicide but it definitely was a thought, and that year, at fifteen, I profoundly remember acting it all out in my head. How would I do it? Jumping off a bridge seems simplest. Who would I miss most? Not to sound narcissistic, but probably myself, as my life would be the only one ending.

So I acted the whole thing out in my head. I planned my funeral, arranged the bed of flowers, made the playlist of my favorite heartbreak songs, watched my family cry as they loomed over my dead body. And I wondered, is this any less empty than my life now? Not in any way, I realized. I started crying, this time in real life. I ran out of my room and found my parents and hugged them and told them that I loved them, and they were confused but glad. And I think being confused but glad is a central theme to all of our existences. Confusing things happen, things that make no sense and have no reason behind them, but we have to be glad for them, because otherwise, what is there to be glad for?

So thank you, but I just don't think we're understanding each other. I hope this makes sense to you and I hope you can find your own confused-but-glad moment in this.