Hateth thee

Dear Columbia,

I hate you. Or do you hate me? I don’t know which one is true. I feel like I hate you, but at the same time, you’re a savior. You’re saving me from becoming nothing. You’re saving me from becoming an alcoholic. You’re saving me from getting a girl pregnant. You’re saving me from raising a family as a teenager. You’re saving me from being dependent on my family. You’re saving me from bullies. You’re saving me from homophobes.

Or are you really saving me? I don’t know. I feel like you are, but I hate it here. I hate that I feel like shit all the time. I’m getting things done but I still feel stupid. I still don’t know if I’ll graduate on time. Some of your faculty members are rude. They don’t really care for students. They want to be the best researchers they cane be. I don’t blame them. This country is made for getting ahead. I’m in the back of the line. I’ll always be in the back of the line.

I wish I could hate you but I can’t. I want to hate you so much, for all the pain that I have. For all the pain I feel, when I see others smiling with their friends or partying and not caring. I feel like I don’t care. My subconscious tells me that I care. I probably need a higher dosage of depression and anxiety medications. I should stop having sex.

I don’t want to go to the hospital again. I feel like everything is my fault. Most of my clothes don’t fit anymore. I could fail out of college. I don’t know what others think of me. Should I become religious? I don’t want to. I don’t even want to believe in Navajo teachings.

But thank you for being you. You will probably never change. You’ll just get good at hiding the pain. I’m getting good at hiding my pain. Thank you.