You make me so unhappy most of the time and you don’t even know it. In fact, you know more about everybody else, you make more time for everybody else, than me. I don’t know why I’m still with you. I think I’m simply grasping on to a faint hope of happiness we might share together. But isn’t it worrying that not a single day passes where I don’t think of leaving you? You are caring and compassionate; you’re truly concerned for the well being of your friends. I can’t fault you on that, and it’s one of the things that drew me to you in the first place. But what I can fault you on, what angers and saddens me the most, is that you don’t show that much attention to me. You assume that because we’re together, you don’t have to put that much effort to see how I’m feeling. I’ve been a dark place these last few months and you just don’t want to know about it. Instead, you place the burden on me to reach out to you when the very thing I need right now is for somebody to come to me and show me that they care.
When I heard about John Smith’s suicide last month, there was a part of me that was jealous of him. Jealous that he didn’t have to live in misery and be consumed by black thoughts anymore.So many times I’ve contemplated following his step, but the conclusion is always that I am too weak to ever do what he did. So I am angry at you. Angry that you don’t even know that this is always going through my mind, angry that you should know.
You will never know this about me.
