Isabella Kostyal

The Price of Misery

"This sucks." I murmured to myself. White fog formed in front of my lips from the heat of my breath as I hugged myself tighter in my much too thin jacket, desperate for more warmth as my feet hung, swinging slightly, from the bus stop bench I was sat upon. I looked around at my dark surroundings, I felt increasingly nervous as I waited for my bus, still unfamiliar to the experience. I supposed this was humbling, considering until a week prior I'd had the distinct luxury of driving myself in a decade old truck. That was until of course the engine decided to blow up in my face, birthing an array of issues on top of what I considered to be an already pretty bad life. Truthfully, I'd never admit to anyone I thought my life was bad or hard, I couldn't stand the guilt of knowing there were people that had it worse than me, people who didn't even have a house to walk back to from the bus stop. However, as thankful as I was to have a home to return to, I also felt as though I was drowning in the lifetime of problems that awaited me there. I'd endured a life of abuse, neglect and abandonment from my parents, and what felt like loss after loss as i worked endless hours just to create a life with even a hint of stability. That stability proved to be just as fragile as I'd assumed, and although I resented how privileged I knew it would sound to others, having to resort to public transportation felt like yet another loss.