I've always said that I hate myself. If I were someone else, I certainly wouldn't want to be friends with me. So I often wonder why it is that I have so many great supporting me. Danny said it's probably because they feel like they benefit somehow from the relationship. I can't fathom what anyone could possibly gain from my pathetic presence.
When I was in middle school we would go on family vacations my mom would plan. As if bringing along a pre-teen weren't enough trouble, there was me, undiagnosed and therefore untreated anorexia and depression. They would laugh and try to take lots of pictures. I wouldn't have any of it. I just wasn't interested in anything; there was nothing that gave me any sort of happiness. I remember my mother lowering her camera once and glaring at me. "Killjoy," she muttered.
At the time, I'd never heard that before. It was quite obvious what it meant, though. And even if I didn't understand, she and the rest of my family proceeded to label me as such. I rolled my eyes and slammed doors and glared and shouted. But it hurt every single time. I don't just bring people down -- I kill their very happiness. And it isn't just my actions -- it's me; I'm the joy-killer. There's a murderer and there's someone who has committed a murder. Like the former, I am defined by my actions.
What am I now? What does my lack of action paint me as?
I don't know.
When I was in middle school we would go on family vacations my mom would plan. As if bringing along a pre-teen weren't enough trouble, there was me, undiagnosed and therefore untreated anorexia and depression. They would laugh and try to take lots of pictures. I wouldn't have any of it. I just wasn't interested in anything; there was nothing that gave me any sort of happiness. I remember my mother lowering her camera once and glaring at me. "Killjoy," she muttered.
At the time, I'd never heard that before. It was quite obvious what it meant, though. And even if I didn't understand, she and the rest of my family proceeded to label me as such. I rolled my eyes and slammed doors and glared and shouted. But it hurt every single time. I don't just bring people down -- I kill their very happiness. And it isn't just my actions -- it's me; I'm the joy-killer. There's a murderer and there's someone who has committed a murder. Like the former, I am defined by my actions.
What am I now? What does my lack of action paint me as?
I don't know.
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