because then at least I’d have a reason to be as sad as I am.
Then I would have a real problem, not one my major depressive mind fabricated.
Then everyone would be more understanding.
They wouldn’t treat me like I’m wrong to feel the way I do,
despite my perfect grades,
nice sales job,
bright red hair,
and high heels.
If I had a tragedy,
maybe I wouldn’t be held to such high expectations.
Maybe people would realize the way I look in no way reflects how I feel.
Maybe they would realize that my appearance is the only thing I can control.
Maybe they would realize grades mean nothing, and I honestly have no idea what I’m doing with my life.
Maybe I wouldn’t feel so ashamed of needing help
or of my inpatient stay in the adolescent ward
or of my horrible, scarred thighs that those cute skirts cover.
Maybe I could go swimming with my friends without boardshorts,
and they wouldn’t stare
and they wouldn’t stammer
and they wouldn’t care
and they would understand.
You know, I think one of the worst feelings is finding out that you didn’t mean as much to someone as you thought you did, and you just feel stupid, and because you looked desperate, about caring too much.