My mother would have witnessed this more than anyone - she tends to walk past my room as I sit here hopelessly. I know it concerns her, but she and I share the same weakness. It's difficult for her to try and say something when she knows anything said would be wrong, so she leaves me be.
Sometimes, it's for the best. I cry it out of me and get over it. But, in reality, chances are I won't. I have a tendency to dwell over things that bother me until they are sorted, else they worsen in my mind. I fixate on every single negative detail and enrage it. No amount of sadness or anger about something will change it or make it go away, but I create factors of both anyway.
I'm an emotional person, though I suppose you could also say "unstable" if it tickles your fancy. I can only imagine what others must say when I turn my back, but the fact that I'm unaware of it bothers me. People around me don't seem to understand why I react in the way I do, or maybe they just don't have the right cues to help them figure it out themselves. It's almost as if I could go do something stupid like jump to my death and I would still be blamed for being too "dramatic"; for not listening; for not being considerate of other people and their feelings first. Would I really still be told that if I were to do it?
This isn't me contemplating suicide or anything like that. I'm just confused by society's demands more than anything. Even the person closest to me who is supposed to understand struggles with my expectations, and I pay the consequences of my actions harshly. I can't say I don't deserve the treatment I receive, but nor do I support it when it is all I have.
"We are never sad cause we are not allowed to be."
I'm only miles away. All I ever needed was someone to talk to, instead I've hid behind empty threats and loosely strung sentences. No one is with me to hold me and tell me it will all be okay. I won't give up, though I can't help but fall to the ground sometimes.