Illegal Emotions

Introduction

Hi, I’m Ori (oh-ree). I’m 13. I love reading fantasy novels and designing video game worlds (even if I never finish them). I’ve got short brown locs, I’m 5′1, and honestly… there’s nothing all that mind-blowing about me. I’m the girl who smiles politely when someone stares too long, or the quiet homeschooler who always seems like she’s got it together.

But the truth is... I don’t.

I wish there was more to me. I cry sometimes when I should be asleep. I light up when someone randomly brings me snacks. And I spend way too much time wondering what’s wrong with me.

So I thought… maybe I’ll start writing letters. To no one. To someone. Just… writing what I can’t say out loud. No filters. No pretending. Maybe it’s silly—but right now, it helps me feel a little less… broken.

Oh—and if you see something like “L.47,” it just means Letter Number 47. It’s my system. Makes me feel like I’m in one of those artsy old movies, typing away on a clunky typewriter while the world passes me by. I like that vibe. So… don’t judge.

So yeah—this is Chapter 1. Just 13-year-old me, homeschooled, overthinking, and figuring it all out one messy letter at a time.

Chapter 1 Begins.

L.1

I’m listening to sad piano music while I cry. I know it makes everything feel heavier… but I kind of want that right now. I want to feel all of it. I’m angry—at situations, at people—but more than anything, I’m angry at myself.

The mistakes… the regrets… they stick to me like dust in sunlight.

I’ve tried letting go. I’ve tried forgiving. But how long do I have to keep fighting?

I’ve only been alive for 13 years… so why do some parts of me feel like they’ve already given up? Like they’re tired of existing?

I said I was mad at people. That’s true. But somehow, I always twist it back to being my fault. I carry their wrongs like they’re mine.

And on top of that, I’ve made my own messes too.

I’m emotional. Always have been. Things hit me harder than I wish they would—even though you’d never guess it by looking at me. I’ve got this mask thing down. Could win an award for it, honestly.

Sometimes I don’t even try to fake it—it just happens. Automatic. Like a reflex. I don’t want to be weak. I want to be strong.

But what if “weak” is just who I am?

My grandmother says those thoughts are lies. That I have to fight them. But sometimes… I believe them too much to fight. They sound like truth.

I want to scream. I mean really scream—until I lose my voice. But I can’t. People would think I’m unstable or something. I wouldn’t blame them.

Thing is… I already feel like I live in a mental prison. And I’m the warden. I keep locking myself in with new chains and new fears.

I’m fighting me. The version of me that wants to give up.

– Ori

L.2

Therapy.

Not the kind where you sit across from someone scribbling on a notepad. I mean the kind of therapy that feels like it actually soaks into your soul.

For me? That’s rain. Jazz music. A deep movie. A quiet walk. A worn-out book.

Especially one book in particular—the Bible. That might be a turn-off for some people, but for me, it’s like medicine.

Here’s the thing: a lot of people want happiness. But what I want… is joy.

Happiness fades. Joy? It stays. Joy knows the storm but still smiles anyway.

I think I’ve only ever felt happiness. Quick, temporary sparks. I’ve been grateful for those moments. Some people don’t even get that.

They don’t smile. Their eyes never light up. They just… exist. Not live.

So yeah, I write these letters for therapy. Not the clinical kind. The soul kind.

To let go. To get better.

– Ori

L.3

The world is a lot like those weird jelly beans—you never know what you’re gonna get. Just cross your fingers and hope it’s not the one that tastes like moldy socks.

Speaking of gross stuff, I once drank a smoothie that legit tasted like toilet water. Never. Again.

Right now, I could go for a burger, fries, and a good movie. Maybe one of those old-school animated ones that still make you cry.

I wish I could invite my best friend, Leyah.

Why not? Well… she lives in Ohio. I’m in South Carolina. And neither of us can just hop in a car and visit. We’re both still technically kids. So unless our parents arrange it? Not happening.

They don’t even know each other, really. I talk about Leyah a lot, but I don’t think she mentions me much to her family.

We’ve only voice-called once—just once—and that was to plan a video game together. We totally forgot about it the next day.

Yet somehow, she feels closer to me than people I’ve actually hugged.

It’s weird. But good weird.

Why am I even talking about this? I don’t know. I guess this letter didn’t need a purpose today.

Just… needed space.

– Ori

L.4

I took a break from social media. I had to. Every time I scrolled, it pulled me back into this cycle of wasting time and comparing myself to people I don’t even know.

Now, I’ve got a rule: no YouTube except on weekends. Since I’m homeschooled and ahead of my grade, I get Fridays off. So—three-day weekends for me. Small wins.

Next thing I’m working on? My eating habits.

I eat a lot. But I’m the kind of person who eats a full meal and then looks for dessert five minutes later. Somehow I don’t gain much weight. People think that’s a flex, but honestly? I don’t brag. You never know what someone else is struggling with.

Also… I’m hoping for a glow-up. Not just physically, but mentally too. I want to be healthier. Kinder to myself.

Style-wise? I want to wear more browns, oranges, and golden tones. Earthy stuff. It makes me feel warm, like sunlight.

– Ori

L.5

Perfect family? Doesn’t exist.

So far, I’ve mostly talked about my grandma and best friend. But I’ve got seven siblings. And of course, a mom and dad. They’re just not… really around.

Each of my siblings has a different dad. I didn’t even meet mine until I was about six. He lives way up in Wisconsin. I used to live there too—not with him, just in the state—and we’d hang out sometimes. It felt more like visiting an uncle than spending time with a father.

He sends messages now and then. Usually corny ones. On my last birthday, he promised to send something but didn’t. He said happy birthday, though. That was it.

I’m not mad at him. I don’t really feel much when it comes to him. He’s just… there.

I do have a half-sister on his side—Mara. She lives with him and his wife. Her life seems decent. I’m happy for her.

My mom? That’s more complicated. Too complicated for one letter. But I’ll try.

She wasn’t good at raising us. Especially not me, Meah, and Bron. We were her first three. She had favorites—me being the main one. But she still neglected us.

There were always men around. Not all of them were safe. One of them nearly got us into a homeless shelter. He hurt us—emotionally, physically. In the end, my grandma had to step in. She’s the reason I’m safe now.

My mom had her own trauma. Things she never healed from. And when you don’t heal… you hurt. Yourself. Other people. Your kids.

She split us up. All my siblings went to live with their dads—except me. Then she kind of… kidnapped me. Took me to some random place. The police got involved. Family members were searching.

After that, everything changed. I barely see my siblings now.

Even with all that, I was a happy kid once. A happy kid… with a lot of broken pieces.

– Ori

L.6

Last letter was a bit heavy. Let’s breathe.

I live with my grandma now, and she’s amazing. Calm. Funny. Strong. Her house feels like a cozy little bubble. My room is pink and soft, like a giant cotton candy cloud. It’s my space—and I love it.

I feel like a panda sometimes. Just chillin’. Cozy. Snack in hand.

Speaking of pandas… I LOVE them. And quokkas! Have you seen those smiling little creatures?! I want to live with them.

Well… not really. I don’t eat bamboo. Or live in Australia. But still. That’d be kind of cool.

I know—I’m weird. But weird is just another word for original. And original is a compliment.

At least that’s what Grandma says.

– Ori

L.7

Why do people assume everyone wants a hug?

My love language should be physical touch. But even though I crave closeness… I struggle with it. I like hugs—from people I trust, like my grandma. But even then, sometimes I dodge them. It’s not personal. I just need space.

I wish people came with an automatic setting: “Ask before touching.”

Most of the time, I let the hugs happen. Even when I don’t want to. It feels rude to reject someone. But then I’m stuck in this awkward bubble, feeling like I betrayed myself.

How do I ever plan to fall in love someday if I can’t handle a hug?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just built different. Maybe I don’t need a reason. Maybe that is the reason.

And I shouldn’t have to explain it to anyone.

I just… needed to say that.

– Ori

L.8

I know my previous letter will seem contradictory….and I’m only 13. But TEEN and Kids have emotions too. I find it rude that some people try to restrict our emotions...knowing good and well they felt those thing when they were younger too.

Anyways, I have a confession. I may or may not be Hopeless romantic. The movie kind. You know the one where the couple dances in the kitchen….goes on silly dates..and are very emotionally supportive of each other. The kind of love you only find in k-dramas. YES I WATCH ROM-K-DRAMAS. There is nothing weird about it. I mean I don’t watch the one’s with uhh….you know boombayah in it. Suprisingnly, there are a lot of TV.14 rom-coms, and I LOVE THAT.

Any speacial guy want to dance with me in the kitchen?

….

No?

Okie…

-Ori

L.9

Today, I cried over a granola bar. Yes...a granola bar. No it didn’t drop on the floor, or break into crumbs. But my grandma got granola bars for me.

What’s special about that? She works VERY HARD to take care of me. Money right now isn’t the best, but miracles keep coming through to allow us to survive. So...her getting snacks for me means a lot. She cares...I know she does. Even though sometimes I doubt it...but that’s do to my personal issues. Everyone close to me I’ve doubted that they honestly care...most of them prove me right. My grandma? She hasn’t proved me wrong...once.

She became the mom….my mother couldn’t be. SHE raised me...not my mom. SHE was their for my first period...not my MOM. SHE was their for every birthday...NOT MY MOM. She loved me….cared for me...SHE is helping heal my wounds...not my mom.

Though...for some reason I can never bring myself to call my grandma mom I always see her as one. I call her mom in my head...just not out loud.

L.10

You ever get the feeling that everything is your fault? Like you caused every wrong… every pain?

I feel responsible for my siblings’ pain. If I wasn’t here, maybe they’d still be together, in a perfect home. I’m the reason we got separated… my mom kept choosing me over them. If I wasn’t here, my grandma wouldn’t have to work so hard just to keep the house afloat. She could live without worrying about bills… she could live comfortably, without stress. She wouldn’t feel guilty about not spending time with me because of work. She’s had to take care of someone since she was 14. She’s tired.

What good do I bring?

It’s been a while since I’ve been my normal, sweet, never-give-up self… I’ve become a bully. An unlikeable person. She once said I don’t bring happiness anymore. I don’t blame her for saying that. I’ve been through so little, but I’m strong enough to take words like that. I know she didn’t mean it to hurt me.

Honestly, I don’t like being around myself either.

I’m not a gift… I’m a burden. These letters can’t help me… because I can’t be helped.

Sometimes, I want to run away. So people can forget me. I’ve been forgotten many times before, so I’m sure not a whole lot of people would care. I’m not that important. I could be forgotten in a year… maybe even less.

I’m tired of existing.

Not living.

L.11

I need to get rid of these letters. I don’t want to write anymore. I’m wasting my time typing all this stuff down… just resurfacing emotions I worked so hard to shove into the shadows.

NO ONE IS EVEN READING—

(deep breath)

…no one is reading these anyway.

What am I, some ghostwriter of emotions, planning to release her secret feelings to the world? Pah-lease.

This is my last letter.

How pathetic is that? I only wrote eleven. Eleven. And I’m already giving up.

Guess that just proves how weak I am.

L.12

I have to get these letters out of here.

I can’t keep clinging to this fantasy that I’m going to be okay… because I’m not.

I’m so broken, not even the sun can burn me.

But you know what the sun can burn?

Laptops.

If only the trash icon were the sun—

because that’s where these letters are going.

Maybe it’s dramatic to write one last letter just to say I’m done.

Maybe it doesn’t make sense.

But it doesn’t have to.

This is my release.

My goodbye.

The letters are going in the trash. For good.

And that’s final.

– Ori