At risk of sounding like a whiny teenager, I have some very personal issues that I would like to get off my chest.  This being my only outlet, and possibly the most private one that I have (no one reads this, therefore no one knows whether or not I actually do sound like a whiny emo kid…), therefore I spill my guts.  Hate on me if you want.  Although, to hate on me, you’d have to actually read my blog ;)

Anywho, lately, I’ve been depressed.  Not, “mai life sux cuz mai mom wont give me money to blo on wii gamez and cloths at holister” kind of depressed (by the way, I have heard sentences like the above and they will never stop making me cringe), but rather the “okay, so my life’s not that great, but then again, it’s not that bad, so why am I so depressed?” kind of depressed.

Maybe it’s because I’m currently in a long-distance relationship.  Maybe it’s because my best friend and I haven’t gotten to spend time together since her arrogant guy friend started taking up all her time.  Maybe it’s because my grandparents (aka, my legal parents) are in awful physical shape and I feel obligated to take up the slack around the house.  Maybe it’s because I don’t know if I’m going to have enough money for college this semester.  Maybe it’s all four.  I wish that I could figure out which it actually is, because then I could take steps to change what’s going on, and then I might not have the crazy anymore.

“Have the crazy.”  That’s a great term.  I’ve always liked it.  It puts a gleeful face on depression.  Like it’s something silly that one can poke fun at and joke about.  It might be a coping mechanism, but I’m not sure.  I’m no shrink.

In any case.  “Why aren’t you getting help?”  All of my (zero) readers might ask.  Well, the straightest answer to that is “To get ‘help,’ I’d have to tell someone.  And how do I tell my MS-weakened grandmother or EXTREMELY sick grandfather that I’m depressed and’ve been cutting myself?  Or my mother.  How could I tell her that I’m depressed?  She’s manic depressive all by herself!  For that matter, how could I even tell my sister, who might be the sanest of us all?  The last time that I had the crazy, instead of realizing that I needed help, she got upset and started crying because I was being “mean.”

You know, none of this helps.  Not even a little bit.  I’ve already written all of this in my journal.  I’ve even brought some of it up to my boyfriend, who (thankfully, yet sadly) didn’t realize that I’m not just a little bummed about such things, but am actually depressed.

Ha.  Now wouldn’t that be fantastic?  Tell my boyfriend that I’ve been cutting.  See what his reaction is.  Like he wouldn’t immediately dump me.  No one wants a crazy girlfriend.  He deserves better than a crazy girlfriend.

Okay, yeah, now I sound like a whiny emo kid.  Sometimes I REALLY wish that the emo subculture had fizzled and died instead of blossoming into a predominately self-serving, spoiled rich kid subculture where, like I said before, people whine about their “problems.”

Unfortunately, that’s what I’m doing.  And I’m trying not to.  After all, there are people in this world who are starving and family-less.  What right do I have at all to complain about my slight money problems and my family’s poor health (no sarcasm here)?

In any case, if there’s a single person who’s stuck out this horrible blog, I thank you sincerely.  You’re wonderful.

And I do have one favor to ask…know any good shrinks in northern Michigan?