I wonder what it feels like for others. Sadness. And why? Life seems like such a nice thing on the cover. It's unfair yes but its still time worth spent. Right?

I'm not going to tell you no for there are so many great things in life that make all the suffering worth while. I like to try to think about that when it gets this bad but its hard to remember when all you can think about is if the blade would be too rusty or if the bleech would taste that bad. It's difficult to be the happy person I am when they make me out to be an ungrateful creature. The happy person I'm suppose to be. Thats what hurts the most. They don't understand how many of my sad or hard times I put aside for the sake of their mood. My "happiness" is just a front. But I've gotten so good at it and so used to it that I don't even notice the wall of pain building until it's too late to stop it from crashing down, threatening to crush my fragile glass heart. I've never been one to come off as weak so I tell myself not to be weak. Isn't that sick? I've become obedient to my brain. The tears that need a dam to stop their flow take only one command to cease. They do it too. They build the wall bigger and bigger ignoring the unstability of it. I try to give them the benifit of the doubt, that they don't mean to, they do actually appreciate me and to think of how good you have it and how many have it worse. But that's just the thing. There really isn't better or worse. There's just pain, constantly present to trip you at any chance it gets. Whether it succeeds or not is up to you. Just because it's not your pain does not rule out the hurt it brings. And again, I try not to be an unhappy person for the sake of all but also for the sake of my being. I'm selfish. At this point I don't care. I'm selfish because right along side pleasing others, I enjoy being happy. Happiness, even just an ounce is the silver lining of the swirling black torment of life. Life is a funny guy. He's your best friend yet he's the one that does everything and anything in his power to destroy you. Until he does. Then when you're broken and you try to think of all the good in life he comes back and helps you pour the bleach down your struggling throat. Convinces you to draw the blood on the wrist that seemed too small. Does the honor of kicking the bucket. Or better yet the chair. But then as life is whispering the words for you to say in this story he turns you around and reminds you."Life is never going to be your friend but he is never going to be your enemy." He then takes your wrists and bandages them each with memories of times you laughed. Times you sung. Times you wish to never lose in the unknown world of death. He takes the bleach from your bloody hands and gives you something better. Meaning.