You know what really hurts?

When you do your absolute best and do whatever it takes to help someone pursue something and they become successful, but they give more credit to someone who begged to be added to their list of people to thank rather than you.  They added someone because they were annoyed and didn’t want to hear from that person anymore despite it holding some form of importance to you.  They did it without a single bit of hesitation because they think of it as something small, though it means the world to you.

There are few moments I hate more than these.

I hate that I push people away at a moment’s notice all the time, but I hate that these people only ever pay attention to the most minuscule of things in times when I’m upset.  They focus on typos when I tell them I’m about to commit suicide.  When I tell them I tried cutting open my wrists but it didn’t work out, they tell me I used an extra comma.

Then when I come back after calming down because I needed the time and space, the response I receive is always the same, “Why are you so mad?”

My response?  Fuck you.

It’s been so many years since I felt comfortable opening up to someone and I tried it despite not really feeling comfortable because I thought it necessary, but the moment I tell you one personal thing, you go off generalizing and minimizing my problems.  Thanks.  Really get to appreciate you as a friend when you do that.

I got tired of this post immediately, goodbye.

It’s so fucking hard to talk about my depression and other issues because I have absolutely no one to fucking validate it.

I mean I myself can understand that I suffer from depression among other mental illnesses, and I sympathize greatly with those who openly speak about their own experiences or can come out and tell people that this is the reason why they wont be able to be the happy-go-lucky friend for a week or so.  It’s just that I get so fucking envious of these people because they can talk about it.  The moment I brought up the possibility to a friend they jumped on my throat asking whether I’ve seen the professional to ‘confirm I’m not lying’ and what was wrong with me/my life that could cause this.  They knew that my family didn’t and will never have enough money for healthcare and they knew that I’d been suicidal on and off for years and the reasoning behind that, and I myself had no clue why I suddenly felt as if life had less color.  How was I to answer?  I come to people looking for help and all they give me is more anger and confusion and at least that’s better than feeling nothing at all, but sometimes, sometimes it isn’t, sometimes I’m better off feeling like worthless shit because of something I can’t control than feeling like killing myself is the best course of action over something I should be able to control.

And if I choose to talk about it openly, someone will still jump me to ask the same questions and it’s so fucking rude and so fucking irritating that I can’t answer any of those questions.  It upsets me that I have gone to my family asking for them to guide me to medical help and they brushed me off over the fact that I’m too young, they say that I’m not considered a working member of the family yet.  I work, I do my best to help the family sell the house and I help my mother with legal work and research.  How am I not a working member? I don’t understand.  Sometimes I accept that judgement and take my place once more, but when I reach out and ask for medical examination and am denied on the grounds that my father likely has a much more severe case of it if anything at all and that I’m somehow too young to want to end my life, I feel just how ridiculous the situation is and it frustrates me to no end.

I used to think I could never get mad at you.

Then I saw you for what you are.

*complains about financial situation*

*complains about not getting enough money or attention to their work*

*complains about ownership of objects necessary to work*

*goes out and buys new tablet despite working one*

*complains about not being able to buy expensive figurines*

*pushes friend’s problems away because LOOK AT THAT SHINY NEW TABLET*

Tumblr notified me that this blog turned 1 today.

Happy Birthday To Me

I miss.. when we didn’t know each other.  When we didn’t really know each other.  When I could see you as both a rival and a potential friend.  When I could strive to catch up to you because you were eons ahead and I was merely traveling hand in hand with your shadow.  I miss when we didn’t talk about finances or futures or life, I wish we could go back to those times when we would laugh at each others’ art or, begrudgingly, find each other kinda sorta cute.  When I first heard your voice and I felt awkward because I couldn’t quite understand what you were saying through your accent, but you felt as though I wasn’t speaking as my voice was higher than yours and that I was suddenly not interested in you anymore.  I miss meeting you for the first time over and over again every time I found something new about you that I could look up to or every time you pried me open a little more, just enough to prevent me from snapping up at you and you saw something shining inside of me.  I don’t know what it was, but something about then, rather than now sparked my love for many things about you.  Now, it feels as if we hang on for the sake of hanging on.  Now I watch as we both fall apart and drag each other down.  It makes me sad to see us go. 

I keep having these dreams.  Dreams of people I love, I know I love them.  The feeling in my chest and the way I behave around them makes that clear as day.  These are real people and real feelings.  They linger when I wake and those in the dreams seem so familiar, I can describe their personalities and some traits, but they’re not people I know.  One girl was soft-spoken and timid and a huge coward, but she cracked the funniest jokes and was super resourceful and always found ways to make the red creep into my cheeks.  There was also a guy in a different dream, tall, blonde, knew what I was afraid of, had a little sister, had a garden he took good care of, found ways to make me feel safe even if I wasn’t.

And then there’s me.  I once saw myself in a dream, and I’ve never really felt like I’m seeing through my own eyes when I dream.  I was hardworking and serious in one instance, but the next I was loud and jovial, thin and weak.

I had one last night, clearer than others, but so much murkier.  I can feel exactly what I felt, but it’s not directed at anyone, I don’t feel these things in everyday life.  I don’t know how to feel them.  I don’t remember what the person from this dream looked like, I don’t even remember what my own hands felt like, but I remember how I felt.  And the feeling won’t go away.