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My Facebook status read as such, "I feel like I'm inconveniencing people."
My mom told me last night that I shouldn't post stuff like that because "you never know who reads it." She then went on to explain to me that I should keep my emotions to myself.
This moment of insensitivity, on top of being completely alienated and scorned by Beate, has set me back. With regards to Beate, I don't know what I did now. We were talking, getting along (it seemed), and now she's deleting anything that I commented on on Facebook. This is what has made me feel that my friendship is an inconvenience. Is it only alright to talk to her when it's convenient for her? Are reaching out and being kind and trying to mend the ills between us futile? I'm trying my hardest to raise a new friendship, but nothing takes root and perhaps the ground is barren. I know she's busy and her work is weighing down on her, but could she say this instead of deleting anything I write on? Are my words - even idle jests traded in friendship - stains?
My mother...is a whole new can of worms. Or perhaps an old one that I haven't disposed of. She doesn't believe in expression. She thinks that the world would be a happier place if nobody said what they were feeling. I used to practice this, but I'm finding that if the world did as she said, then the entire planet would be miserable and a harder place to live in emotionally.
She told me today that I need to get over this "depression shit," like it's something that can easily be overcome. Her own daughter wastes away, and she treats her as a weakling. I don't want a therapist or a psychiatrist. I don't want to be put on medications to mellow me out or make me into a zombie. I don't even think I can open up to a nonobjective third party; I'm clumsy and self-conscious on my words, and I wouldn't say everything or give the whole story. Writing silly little posts in this silly little journal is helping little by little. I can write the things in my heart more easily than speak them.
Sitting with her was unbearable today. She wanted to talk, but all she did was prattle on about small, stupid things without any regard to my interests. I'm actually sick right now; my stomach has been aching the last few days, and only last night did I get over a fever. Instead of letting me return to my room to experience calm and quiet and relax, she kept me downstairs to be audience to her inane babble. She didn't really even ask me how I was feeling. Just: "Why are you depressed?" in a demanding voice. I didn't tell her why; I never can. She makes it hard to open up.
I need to get out of this house and out of this life.
My mom told me last night that I shouldn't post stuff like that because "you never know who reads it." She then went on to explain to me that I should keep my emotions to myself.
This moment of insensitivity, on top of being completely alienated and scorned by Beate, has set me back. With regards to Beate, I don't know what I did now. We were talking, getting along (it seemed), and now she's deleting anything that I commented on on Facebook. This is what has made me feel that my friendship is an inconvenience. Is it only alright to talk to her when it's convenient for her? Are reaching out and being kind and trying to mend the ills between us futile? I'm trying my hardest to raise a new friendship, but nothing takes root and perhaps the ground is barren. I know she's busy and her work is weighing down on her, but could she say this instead of deleting anything I write on? Are my words - even idle jests traded in friendship - stains?
My mother...is a whole new can of worms. Or perhaps an old one that I haven't disposed of. She doesn't believe in expression. She thinks that the world would be a happier place if nobody said what they were feeling. I used to practice this, but I'm finding that if the world did as she said, then the entire planet would be miserable and a harder place to live in emotionally.
She told me today that I need to get over this "depression shit," like it's something that can easily be overcome. Her own daughter wastes away, and she treats her as a weakling. I don't want a therapist or a psychiatrist. I don't want to be put on medications to mellow me out or make me into a zombie. I don't even think I can open up to a nonobjective third party; I'm clumsy and self-conscious on my words, and I wouldn't say everything or give the whole story. Writing silly little posts in this silly little journal is helping little by little. I can write the things in my heart more easily than speak them.
Sitting with her was unbearable today. She wanted to talk, but all she did was prattle on about small, stupid things without any regard to my interests. I'm actually sick right now; my stomach has been aching the last few days, and only last night did I get over a fever. Instead of letting me return to my room to experience calm and quiet and relax, she kept me downstairs to be audience to her inane babble. She didn't really even ask me how I was feeling. Just: "Why are you depressed?" in a demanding voice. I didn't tell her why; I never can. She makes it hard to open up.
I need to get out of this house and out of this life.
