What made it okay for you to tell me everyone is depressed when I finally confided in you that I’m terrified I could be?
What made you think it would be alright for you to just brush off my confession as though it didn’t mean anything?
I’m so spent of actually opening up my mind and feelings to others and having them not listen. They hear. They sigh and they respond. But they don’t listen. They don’t sympathize. They certainly do not understand.
I cry all alone in my apartment, and you ask me why I don’t reach out to you when I’m sad. You make me feel bad saying I could’ve called or texted you. But the truth is, I have. I’ve asked for help, I pleaded for you to listen, and you treated me like a child. You brushed off everything I told you and pretended I’ll be okay. You tell me everyone’s going through the same thing, but they’re not! They’re not constantly praying to be healthier in six months. They’re not begging to some unknown power to change their fate. So what’s the use of calling you now when I’m sad again?
Now when I cry, I curl up on the floor in this lonely living room. Then I remind myself, back touching the cold bleak wall, all I have is me.