Dear reader,

My name is Stacy. My friends say I am funny, sarcastic, kind, patient, blah, blah, blah. I appreciate their feelings but, in my mind, I don’t believe them. I have terrible thoughts, things I want to say or scream…but I keep everything inside.

I tend to write letters when I am angry, which is why I am choosing this format; it’s familiar to me.

I live in Delaware, I’m 42, and live with my dad (75) and nephew (22). I get the impression that neither of them really gives a damn about me. I can see it. He has a violent temper and will throw things, then wonder why things aren’t in the correct place. Cameron has no motivation to do anything. He has had three jobs, all of which I obtained in getting for him. He currently is back at FedEx, and I rarely see him. He will come out of his room to yell at me, dad, and/or the dog, Luna. He thought it would be a brilliant idea to remove his bedroom door and put a blanket up instead. Now, he complains about us being too loud. I smile and tell him we will keep it down, while in my head I am telling him to put up his fucking door and maybe we won’t have a problem.

Mom and my sister, Amy, both passed away. They currently reside on the mantle above the fireplace. I write lots of letters to them, too.

You will learn more about me and hopefully you will respond favorably.

Sincerely,

Stacy