Invitation to a Sixteenth Birthday Party.

So my birthday's next week and I thought I'd invite you all though you aren't part of my life anymore because there is no one else now that I trust enough to make anything about it anything like important. I was never the kind of friend that you all would invite to your parties, or ask to come over and hang out after school, or tell your secrets to first hand; but I would have done all that and more with each and everyone of you if I could have; not because you treated me as if I were normal; you didn't. Not because you always included me, because you didn't. Not because I expect you to come when you get this, because really I don't. It's because to you, I was human. I was real, and visible, and tangible, and sometimes you worked with me on homework. It's because a year ago you decorated my locker with Christmas Wrapping Paper and wrote a note on it, and I knew that you cared about me; really, really cared about whether I lived or died and whether or not I was happy. And because I could make some of you laugh, and because even though no one saw me as one of you, I knew I was part of that group that sang to people on their birthdays while the cafeteria groaned and held their ears. I was a person, a real person, even if I was as invisible next to you as a flashlight aimed at the sun. And it's all over now, leaving me so dark and empty inside because I know that I was lucky to find that and I'll never have that back. I have friends now, of course, I make friends easily. But I'm not the kind of friend that they like to hang out with either. There's a group in my gym class that claims to accept me, but I know they don't really because there's no room for me at their cafeteria table, and they don't have the long distance as an excuse to leave me out when they throw parties or meet after school. And that one girl from karate that I thought the world of when school began, who I thought I could finally trust with all this? Oh, we're still friends. But that's so confusing, because she's so apathetic that she doesn't care about me either way, so how is that friendship? If I never saw her again, if I HATED her, perhaps if I died... I can't see it in her to care all that much. And at least those of you guys in orchestra would have made sure we were in the same room during tour, even if you never noticed how mean some of the other first violins were to me since I hadn't been playing since I was three and couldn't fit their definition of 'right'. I don't fit ANYONE'S definition of 'right', not even my own, really. But that's what happens when your world is torn to pieces again every three years or so and all you want to do is a)get a driver's liscence b)make some friends c)learn to dance, so I can be graceful and good enough and part of that magic that I've tried for years to find, but lost somewhere and d)go somewhere and SCREAM until I find my heart again. But I feel so selfish because all I worry about is what's wrong with me. Shouldn't I think more about all those people who have it worse? Yes, I'm lonely and broken; yes I'm completely dysfunctional, but at least I can write about it disguised as poetry. At least I can draw it, and play it, and sing it, and wish that I could dance it though I know dancing for me is impossible. And I've gotten good over the years at hiding the fact that I can't function, that I'm a FREAK who's barely managing to survive the agony of life with all it's bright lights and loud sounds and people touching me, people who will hurt me if they know that I'm different, and people who hurt me because they don't know that you MUST NOT TOUCH MY HAIR, please don't. At least I don't have to hurt myself to escape the pain, because I have my fair share of outlets. And at least I have all of you, though you really don't know that mean all that to me, since I never told you; even though I wanted to cry about in on one of your shoulders, any one of you, from the day I woke up and knew the medical terms for this. But I was far too afraid; I was already different enough. And I'm still too afraid to tell you these things, to say them to anyone but the strangers who read my poems on obscure websites or stumble over the stories I write and take a while to examine them. I can't tell you though I wish I could with all my heart, because one day I'll have to start talking about this and I'd rather it be with one of the people I trust most. Maybe at the party, when you're waiting for rides (or getting out your car keys, those who can drive already), I'll be brave enough to say a little bit. Just a little. Maybe. But for now I can't say all that, so here begins the actual message that you can read... What: My Party When: Friday at 6-midnight Where: My House In Case of Pet Allergies: We have a dog, a rabbit, and my little brother Hope you can make it; I've missed ya'll and I'm dying to see you. You don't have to bring a present, just come and we'll hang out and eat pizza and maybe watch a movie. Please call or email me if you're comming; if you don't, I'll have to assume that you aren't. That would be the present, you see, in this last thought that you can't read, if for one night I could almost be normal; inviting my friends over after school to hang out and eat and watch movies like you all used to do and talk about for weeks afterward and somehow never caught on that it hurt some people listening. But just this once, I hope you'll come; Sixteen is supposed to be special. Please, please come and be my friends again for just one night.