I Don't Belong Here
I don't think this will make any sense but I need to tell someone, and who better than the faceless people of the net? Right now I'm living with my parents in my old room, working a dead end job with no prospects for the future, a bank account that's usually empty, and I'm divorced. They say I've been like this for 4 years, traveling around every few months for a new job only to screw up and come back home. You're typical no good millennial shit. But this, this isn't right. This isn't my life. A month ago... I don't know what happened, but a month ago something happened. Reality broke, or a wormhole opened up, or I took a wrong turn and ended up in hell. A month ago I was living in Toronto. I was an ESL teacher there, I had a good job teaching students and immigrants English. I tutored on the side for extra cash. It was interesting, I liked meeting all the new people, and I didn't have to do that much work, just listen and correct them when they made a mistake. I was good at it. I was with my wife. We were happy. We had arguments sure. And four years ago we were thinking about divorce, I'd even talked to a lawyer about it, but we talked it out. Then she got pregnant, so we stayed together and things got better. We loved, we LOVE each other. A month ago, I went to bed beside her on our large bed, in a small but comfortable apartment. I gave her a kiss, and went to sleep. I woke up in the morning and fell out of a tiny single bed in a cramped and dirty room, hearing my mom yelling at me to wake up. I didn't know where I was, why I was there, or what had happened to my family. I freaked out, demanded to know what was going on. My Mom was terrified as I tried to phone my wife and when some guy answered I screamed at him to put her on. She told me I'd divorced my wife four years ago. I didn't take it well. She called 911 and I was put in the hospital for a week. They said I had a mental breakdown and walked me through the last 4 years of my life. To get out, I nodded and acted like it was all real. But I know this isn't my life. This is the life of some fuck up, who I could have been, but I'm not this guy. I know I'm not because I can remember my daughter. My beautiful, little girl. I remember washing her as baby, changing her diaper so many times, feeding her late at night so my wife could get some sleep, and waking her up for breakfast before I went off to work. Her first word was Dada. At 2 and a half, I taught her how to make pan fried bread for breakfast, she helped me mix the dough. We were getting her ready to go to kindergarten, we did a family shopping trip and spent all day getting her new clothes, she said it was a fashion show. I remember when I last saw her, it was my turn to read her a story. I read her Robert Munsch, The Mud Puddle. It's her favourite. I gave her a kiss, her hair tickled my nose. I said goodnight, but she was asleep already so I didn't say I love you. I didn't think it was important. I haven't seen her in a month. I don't know if she's OK, if she misses me, or what. The psychologist says I don't have a daughter. I had to- I had to say she wasn't real to get out of the hospital. I don't know what happened. Maybe I got switched with this other me. If he is in my reality, I hope to god he treats them right. Or maybe I just disappeared, and they don't know what happened to me. Maybe I'm still there, perfectly normal, and I'm the doppelganger who got the short end of the stick. I don't know. I do know one thing. I can't stay here. I can't live like this. This isn't my life. I remember my daughter. I don't care what they say, she is real. I'm going to go for a drive after I post this. I never told her I love her, I've got to get back to tell her that. I'm going to get back to her one way or another. She needs to know how much I love her. Good bye.
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