Tuesday, September 30, 2014


His name was Sterling.

He was a chubby face little baby.

He was sweet and kind. He smiled at everyone who he met, and look down abashed at the pretty ladies.

He loved the color red, and loved his red blanket with a Mickey Mouse pattern more than life itself. He brought it with him everywhere.

He was happy and he was so full of life.

Sterling grew up and remained kind.

He played well with the other children on the school yard. He demanded chivalry and always included the girls in on the fun. He was also brave and would climb to the top of the monkey bars quicker than any of his friends.

His favorite movie was Star Wars (Episode VI).

He loved reading books, adored Harry Potter.

He dreamed of daring sword fights, casting spells, fighting the bad guys, and always coming out on top because of the goodness in his heart. He could do anything he set his heart to.

Sterling loved the color red and he grew up known as the Little Red Boy (despite having light brown hair).

His eyes shown with the vigor of life and attracted others to surround him. He never feared anything in life, not the time he went skydiving, nor the time he fell and broke his foot in three places and had to have surgery to repair it.

Sterling fell in love for the first time at the age of 16, to a girl a little younger than him at his school. He dreamed about her night and day, but never once did he tell her how he felt. He was heartbroken by the time he turned 17 as the girl fell in love with an 18 year old.

Sterling excelled at school, and graduated in the top 20 of his class. He wore honors cords as he walked across the stage at his high school graduation and shook hands with his principal. His parent's eyes gleamed with pride. He had been accepted to a prestigious university on a tremendous scholarship.

Sterling was tall and strong, but his heart was kind and soft. When he moved away for school, he called his mom and dad every day, telling them how much he missed them, tears in his voice.

But his vigor followed him, and soon he excelled at his university. His thirst for life made him irresistible to those around him.

Sterling fell in love again at the age of 20, to a girl he had met in his British Literature class (he had hoped they would read Harry Potter and was upset to have to read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight). He fell in love with this girl and she was so full of life after meeting him that she fell in love with him.

Sterling grew up, and graduated well in his class. His internship that he went to daily, dutifully, and unpaid for 2 years had turned into a career. He took every opportunity given to him, and found himself successful at every turn. Even when Sterling wasn't successful, he considered himself to be just from the experience.

When Sterling was 24 he married the girl he fell in love with in his British Literature class (she had gone on to pursue Shakespearean studies). By age 27, he was a father, and he was widely considered the best father for miles around.

His parents beamed on proudly watching their Little Red Boy holding his own little boy in a red blanket with Mickey Mouse on it. They could not have been happier for this blessing that had come into their lives 27 years earlier.

Today should have been his birth day.

Today should have been the day that he was born, and enabled him to live this full life for the next 27 years.

However, today never came for Sterling.

His parent's were young and unprepared. His mother was sick and went to the doctor, took home antibiotics, not knowing she had Sterling with her. It wasn't until it was too late that his mother realized that it was a bundle of nerves that she lost, nothing yet formed, not even enough to be confirmed.

But a mother knows.

On the day she lost Sterling, she cried, opened a calendar and marked down 9 months from that date, then took out her red blanket with the Mickey Mouse pattern, and laid down to rest.

Sterling would never live to see the day that his son took his first breath.

Sterling would never live to see the day where his own heart pumped for the first time, filling his body with undeniable life.

Sterling would have been so full of life.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Back to the Streets Where We Belong

I know what you're all thinking.

Another sad post by Chelsea.

Here we go again.

But here's all that I have to say in a nutshell: I'm tired of being unhappy.

Like, really, really, tired of being this way.

And I've been getting a lot of shit for it lately too.

Now I know what some of you are thinking: Why the hell would someone be giving you shit for having depression?

You know, that's a great question.

People tend to think that I have a lot more control over what I say, what I do, and how I feel than I actually do. That's the thing about depression, as well as most other diseases, is that the person that is afflicted has essentially no control over what happens to them. They're forced to live in this body that is killing them from the inside out.

And frankly I'm tired of it.

I'm tired of not wanting to kill myself but not wanting to be alive.

I'm tired of being negative.

I'm tired of feeling like the world is completely against me.

I'm tired of wishing that people would stay or come back into my life.

I'm tired of feeling that people are always leaving me.

I miss the old me. The old, funny, happy, didn't matter what people did because it's not my problem anyway me.

I've been thinking about it a lot lately. It seems that most of my unhappiness stems from the fact that I love people more than they will ever love me--always, as well as the fact that people are constantly leaving.

The more I think about it, the more I guess I realize that there are people in this world who are meant to love more than those around them.

I realize that there are people who when they say the words "I will always be here for you", that they actually mean it.

And I happen to be one of those people.

And part of me thinks that I should change. That I should close off my heart like I said I would a million times before. That I should stop growing connections to those around me.

But then I realize that I can't. No matter what I say or do, I'm always going to be the one that loves more. I'm always going to be the one left behind when others leave me.

So what I'm going to do is accept that. I'm going to accept that if I love someone, they will eventually leave me behind. That's the way that the world works. And I suppose I'm going to have to be okay with that. I will always love more and they will always leave me and that's just the way it is.

And I need to accept that about myself and about the world around me.

I'm trying to make a vow to be happier, in whatever way I can.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Witch, Witch, You're a Bitch

It was the first day of junior high.

She was dressed in her finest, wearing her only non-screen printed t-shirt and her best fitting pair of jeans. Her hair was in a high pony tail. She was conscious, but she was confident.

It was the first day of junior high and up until that point she had gone to a private school. Up until that point, she had never had more than 14 other kids in her class. And now she had 7 classes of 30 students.

It was the first day of junior high and she was nervous.

It had started off wonderfully. First period math where she only had a little bit of trouble. Second period PE, where she felt glad the teachers hadn't made them change in front of everyone else (maybe she was actually more conscious then confident). Third period was Geography where the teacher was sweet. Fourth period was science where there were three other girls with her name in the class but she met a nice girl that she sat next to. Fifth period was theatre where the teacher was quirky.  And sixth period was English where she felt the most confident.

It was the second day of junior high and she was ready.

But first period she forgot her ID and was forced to sit in on in-class detention.

Second period they made everyone change out, and a girl twice her height called her a "fat ass" to four other girls at the end of the rows of lockers.

She cried in the back of the classroom throughout most of third period because of what that girl had said.

But her parents hadn't loaded money onto her lunch account, so she sat hungry through fourth period.

In fifth period, she brightened up.

But in sixth period, when she was able to answer every single question that the teacher asked, the girl who had called her a fat ass during gym cornered her outside the classroom. "You're a bitch," she said. And walked away.

She had never heard anyone being called that word before. Sure, she had done her fair share of cussing in her day, from saying the word "crap" on the swing set of her private school, to calling a donkey an "ass". But she had never, ever thought that anyone said the word "bitch" to people.

Was she a bitch?

It was the first day of eighth grade. She had lost 40 pounds since that girl called her a fat ass in second period gym. She remembered her ID every single day. She had learned not to be so cocky in classes where she excelled. And she had learned to stick up for herself.

She was called a bitch, though. Time after time after time.

She was a bitch because she was smart.

She was a bitch because she knew the answers.

She was a bitch because she was nice and tried to help those in need.

She was a bitch because she wouldn't take no for an answer.

She was a bitch because she had gotten so used to being called a bitch, that she began to believe it herself.

The word followed her around for years to come.

As a high school senior, she was a bitch for telling her best friend's parents that their daughter wanted to kill herself. She just hadn't wanted to see her die, so instead she lost a friend because she had been such a bitch.

As a college sophomore she was a bitch because two of her friends had broken up, and she only talked to him, mostly because the she-side of the relationship didn't want to discuss it. But she was a bitch for talking to the friend she had known less time, and so she lost the long-term friend. She eventually lost the other one as well.

As a college junior, she was a bitch because she asked the boy she was seeing to be in a relationship, but apparently he wanted nothing to do with it. She was also a bitch for deciding to spend more time for herself to work a job she loved than mindless social interaction at school. And so she not only lost him, but lost a good deal of her friends as well.

As a post-grad she was a bitch because she refused to be nice to people who had treated her so cruelly.

She was the bitch in this case.

She was always the bitch.

And even though she had never wanted to do anything wrong, it seemed as if she were always the one paying the price. She was always the bitch, no matter how much she cared, she was always the bitch for caring too much or knowing too much.

It was in this way that she lost so many of her friends.

Ever since that second day of junior high, she had always envied those who had been able to make friends so easily. She would try and try and try, but it seemed as if no one wanted much to do with her. And even the friends that she did make wouldn't invite her out for any type of social interaction. The older she got, the more she saw her friends going on vacations together, going to Vegas together, going to the mall together, going to dinner together...always, ALWAYS without her.

Not only did she envy those who could make friends, real friends, so easily, but she also envied those who could keep those friends. In the span of 9 years between the first day of junior high and the last day of her senior year of college, she did not have any of the same friends for more than 3 of those years.

It was because she was the bitch. She was always the bitch, no matter what she tried to do.

I've never wanted anything more than to be somebody's friend, anybody's friend. But no matter what I do, those words from the second day of junior high seem to haunt me. Like from a song "witch, witch, you're a bitch".

I feel as if I've gotten so accustomed to hearing those words told to me, that I've started to take on that type of personality. I've proclaimed to be proud of my bitchiness. I live for it. But in reality, that isn't who I actually am. And I hate having to pretend as if it were. In reality, all I want to do is love and care about the people around me. And yeah, maybe I'm a hardass and refuse to take no for an answer, refuse to let people who have hurt me back into my life, but how does that make me a bitch?

Somehow, I've decided that I've heard it said so much, that I've decided to become it.

I am a fat ass.

And I am a bitch.

And that's how everyone I know sees me. As this bitch of a thing that I know that I am not. And so everyone will whisper under their breath, no matter what it is I do, and say "Gosh, what a bitch." And that's what I am, because no one will see me as anything else. Not even my friends or the people who love me after some time. They all see me as the same thing in the end.

And no matter how much weight I lose, no matter how nice I try to be, no matter how much a I care about people, and no matter how hard I try...that is what I will always be. And in the end, people will always leave me because I am the bitch that cared.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Fall in Love with the Colors of Me

Stick with me here.

Here's the thing.

Everyone keeps coming to me to provide love and support.

To which I truly appreciate. Granted, however, I have not given in and I have not talked my issues out with anyone. Admittedly though, no one has forced me into a closed room and forced me to talk. Or let me cry to them. Or simply sit and watch a movie with me.

There's been support. Ish.

The big thing I keep hearing though is, "Chelsea, stick it out. I know it's hard. We all go through tough periods of our life. But soon you'll be back to your old self again."

People seem to have this idea that this "recent" depression has made me forget who I am. Maybe even made me lose who I am.

Here's the thing though: This is who I always have been. I have changed over the years, however, the true core of me has not. You all are just seeing the different colors shining through.

But this color has always been here. This depression goes back 7 years, but before I never used to be so open about it. This idea of me wanting to kill myself is not new: I've probably only had about 100 or so days of the past 7 years (which is well over 2000 days, mind you) where I haven't had this thought cross my mind. Even at my happiest. And it's not like I actually want to kill myself. It's that I just don't want to be alive. To me, there is a difference.

But what I'm trying to say is that I am who I always have been. Still to this day. I think the big problem is that most of you, now clouded by this new color of me, have forgotten who I am instead.

So I'm going to do something kind of strange. I'm going to survey myself, and remind you all who I am behind this specific color. I'm still the Chelsea that you all fell in love with. And I still love me.

What is your name?
Chelsea Cr--- (bleeped for personal security...this part of me hasn't changed)

What do you wish your name was? Why?
Summer. This was supposed to be my name if you go back in the way way back machine, pre-me. However, my parents had second thoughts. But that didn't stop me from wishing it were my name. I used it as my stage name for 4 years of theatre when there were too many other Chelsea's in my class. And if I ever make it big as a writer and decide to use a penname, it's going to be Summer Earl (you heard it here first). I just think it's a pretty name and something that just...fits me in a way that Chelsea doesn't.

What's the most beautiful thing you've ever experienced?
The sunset in Arizona. It's weird to explain, but it happens slow. Real slow. The sun starts going down to the horizon and the Western sky starts burning yellow. The whole sky turns this bright, bright yellow. And then it starts morphing, layers added on. Turning pink, then red, then purple. And finally the sky goes dark blue. It's a million different colors all at once and if you ever see it in it's true glory, you will probably shit your pants. The best part comes next though. When the sky goes dark, and if you're in the right place in the desert, you can look up and see all the stars. And you can literally get lost because it seems like a kaleidoscope in the sky.

When were you most at peace?
There are two times that stick out in particular.
The first was April of last year, and sneaking out to the beach in the middle of the night. It was freezing cold and I had sand up my ass, but literally just sitting in the pitch dark, listening to the waves crash upon the shore in the distance was the most peaceful moment I've ever had. I crave going back to that.
The other is a generalized statement. It sounds cliche, but you know that place that's between awake and sleep? When you're fighting with all your might to stay awake, but it's dark and you're comfortable in bed and in love, and you lose that battle. That moment right before I lose is probably the most peaceful feeling I know.

What's your favorite color?
Purple. But not the regular purple. It's a purple so dark and light at the same time that it's almost gray. Not lavender. Not fuschia. But purple-gray. It's a wonderful sight.

Favorite flower?
I divide this into categories:
Mmmmmm :)

Favorite song?
Again, categories.
Song from a musical: Breathe, In the Heights
Song from a band: Blackbird, Beatles
Song from a music score: Flying, James Newton

Favorite movie?
Categories are
Series (that isn't based on a book): Back to the Future
Film within a series: Star Wars, Episode V
Disney: Hercules
Fairy tale base: Ever After
Movie movie: Princess Bride

Favorite book?
Series: Harry Potter
Classic: Pride and Prejudice
Modern: Before I Die

Favorite musical?
Classic: My Fair Lady
Modern: In the Heights

What would you name your kids?
Boy: Sterling (I've always tried to name my book characters this, but it's never quite right)
Girl: Gemma (Admittedly, only if she were born a ginger cuz how cute is that?)
I'd have to give the name "Earl" to one of the boys as a middle name considering it's a family thing and I have to obey the law. But yeah, I really like Sterling and Gemma.

If you could relive any moment of your life, what would it be?
I wish I could relive the day before my dad died. August 8, 2011. Give him a better hug, consult my feelings more. But mostly to have those extra few hours with him again. He was supposed to have so much more time.

If you could live in any other decade?
Probably the 1980's for the pop culture, the 1940's for the clothing, and the 1890's for the society.

What's your biggest fear?
Being alone.

What's your greatest dream?
To be happy, no matter what.

Favorite holiday?
Christmas when it feels like Christmas. I haven't had a real Christmas in 4 years it seems.

Favorite smell?
It's weird, but if you light a piece of paper on fire, let it burn, and then water it out. The smell that comes from that is one of the greatest things on earth. If I could bottle that, I would.

All of these things, with the exception of some recent memories, have been who I am for the past who knows how many years of my life. I haven't forgotten who I am. I'm still me. I'm still Chelsea Marie. If it seems like you're the ones who've forgotten who I am, please reread this. Remind yourself that I'm still here.

I might be crying out for help, but it's still the same old me.

Don't lost me in the hue of this other color of me.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Once Upon a Time...

Once upon a time there was a girl. She was an average girl, of regular gait and no surpassing marks of beauty. She thought herself quite plain and quite unimportant.

She was just an average girl.

She was a strange girl.

And she was a broken girl.

She walked the Earth for the early part of her life feeling as if she did not belong. As if she were meant to live in a different era entirely. While the other girls around her talked about boys and makeup and clothing, she sat by herself and read and wrote her thoughts down on paper. She created stories of herself, a beautiful young girl, who lived hundreds of years ago and didn't have a care in the world. She went to balls and danced with men and was able to freely live her life, always with her best friend by her side. The girl told her family of her fictional adventures, and they were delighted with her intelligence, and yet concerned about her obsession.

The feeling of not belonging never went away from this girl's consciousness. It followed her, plagued her even. The older this girl got, the more the feeling changed. Transforming to feeling like she belonged in a different era, to feeling as if she did not belong anywhere at all. The more that she lived, the more that this girl believed that she was nothing special to the world.

She had but one desire: To feel as if she belonged, truly, deeply belonged. To feel as if she had somewhere that she was meant to be, and someone that she was meant to be with. True love and true belonging were her desire. She lusted after fairy tale stories, becoming to attached to heroines such as Cinderella and Rapunzel, so full of life, and so full of joy. She dreamed of a life where she met her true love, and there was nary an issue and they lived on to create happy, full lives. She dreamed of a world where she felt as if she belonged.

She dreamed of a world where she felt wanted.

Her whole life she searched for this feeling.

There were some occasions where she felt like she had found it. But it was not to be. She fell too quickly and too hard, and in the end, she was left, cast off, feeling as if she were not good enough. She felt as if she did not deserve to be wanted, or to be loved.

This followed her for years, and slowly, but surely, tore the spirit from this young girl. She still wanted to believe in fairy tales and true love, but she believed that they were not for her. She was nothing extraordinary, and so why should she be treated as such? This young girl, the older she got, began to lose her spirit. And the one thing that she used to be complimented about, the sparkle of her eyes, slowly died out. The world, in it's vicious cruelties, was killing this young girl of no importance.

However, this girl had a strange power that even she could not explain. She had gone her whole life feeling unwanted, cast aside. However, each time this would happen, something strange would occur.  The very people who cast her aside, made her feel her lowest, would somehow come back to her, begging for her to allow them back into her life.

So hurt by their earlier cruelties, she would not allow them, afraid to be hurt again. But time and time again, they came back to her, saying she was the one thing they could not live without. The one thing they could not get out of their minds no matter how hard they had tried. They apologized for their cruelties, for they had not known any better.

This girl did not understand the gift that she seemed to have.

For it seemed that each person that she came into contact with throughout her life, had been thoroughly changed by her. She spent her life feeling alone and unwanted, but truly she was making a difference to everyone she had ever met.

Slowly, this power of hers drove her mad. How could it be that someone who had spent their life unwanted, was suddenly wanted by the people who made her feel so low?

How could it be that as soon as people drew her in and started to make her feel wanted, they suddenly cast her away as if she were garbage?

How could it be that she, a girl of no importance, somehow had made such an impact on the world around her?

How could it be that after she walked away, head low, so many ran after her, raising their hands for attention?

And how could it be that she still never felt as if she belonged anywhere, even with her own family?

She did not understand this gift, nor did she try. It was beyond her scope. She simply walked through life, feeling unwanted, and knowing as soon as she gave up something that hurt it would come to follow her back. She knew that this would eventually be the fate of all those who left her behind.

She walked through life hoping that maybe, just maybe, someday someone would see her for her gifts, see the princess she dreamed herself to be, and vow to never let her go.

She walked through life praying that maybe, if she wished hard enough, there would finally be someone who did anything to stay with her, no matter how average or broken she was.

I walk through life wishing that someday I will be destined to be happy too.

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Listen to me. Don't hear me.

I don’t know where else the fuck to post this to. But I need to rant about my life because no one is going to listen to me.

It’s almost 2 am. I should’ve been asleep 3 fucking hours ago.

But once again I’m wide awake because of all this pain that I have.

Why is so hard for people to care about people’s problems that aren’t their own? Like, what makes that so fucking difficult?

I don’t fucking get it.

It seems like all I do is care about the people around me.

But I’m not allowed to have problems of my own. Oh, hell no. What’s wrong with you, Chelsea? You’re working your dream job at Disneyland, living in Southern California, and have a room all to yourself. You have so much wonderful stuff, what could possibly be fucking wrong with you, you ungrateful little prick? Nothing. Everyone else’s problems mean more than you ever will. You’re not important. You never will be. Your one purpose in life is for you to take care of everyone else around you and care more about them then anyone else could possibly reciprocate.

What about the fact that right now I feel like it would be easier for me to kill myself then anything else? Maybe I ripple the ocean that is everyone else’s lives too much.

What about the fact that my dream job doesn’t give a fuck that I graduated with a BFA and that I need to make rent. What about the fact that I was told for years to go to school for my dream, and you’ll never be unhappy, and now everyone tells me that I fucked up. I should be proud of my degree, and not have to cover up what I went to school for. Creative Writing, what an incredible waste of 200000$.
What about the fact that because I work my dream job I can’t afford to stay in Southern California much longer? What about the fact that my mom is yelling at me because I have to charge gas on her credit card so I can get back and forth to this dream job because I can’t afford it on my own.

What about the fact that I’m probably going to have to move back to Arizona is a big thought on my mind right now? What about the fact that I know if I’m forced to move back there that I’m actually, literally going to kill myself. Seriously.

It’s not like I want to kill myself. It’s more the fact that I just wish I weren’t alive anymore. Like I genuinely don’t feel like I’m an important enough person. I don’t feel like anyone would care about me either way?

Like, fuck. I just want someone to listen to me for once.

The past few weeks have been me taking care of everyone else’s problems. Roommates fighting over a parking spot that they have to share? oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve been walking back and forth from the Office Depot without a single complaint every single night for four months. But I’m selfish for asking for it on days I’m off at 130am.

Oh you’re struggling under the stress of work? Oh, I’m so sorry. Please tell me what it’s like to be overworked and under appreciated because I sure as hell don’t know after 3 years of this company where I’ve been working my ass off and still don’t seem to be good enough to get scheduled more than 12 hours a week. So much for my hard work.

Your parents are dicks to you? Oh gee, what’s that like? My dad is dead and my mom spent my college tuition money on a new car and then called me selfish for asking for money for food so now I just don’t eat.

Oh, you’re having problems making the small amount of rent that you pay to live in your childhood room with your parents? I’m so sorry. I wish that my mom lived close enough for me to live with her, but instead I share a house with 3 roommates, 2 of which I can’t fucking stand and didn’t chose to live with in the first place because I was forced into this house because my boyfriend broke up with me and I had no other choices. Oh, and I can’t afford to make rent even though it’s the least amount I’ve ever had to pay for a place of my own. 

Oh you’re feeling ostracized from your friend? Wow. That’s sad. I only sit at home alone every single fucking day, wishing I was hanging out with someone, anyone at all. And that every time I make plans with someone, they find their own time to be more important than my own and so they leave me high and dry and alone.

But I’m the selfish one. God, Chelsea. Why are you such a fucking screw up?

I’m so tired of being alone when it doesn’t convenience others to be around me.

I’m taking care of everyone else, and no one wants to hear my own struggle. The fact that I’m losing my battle with my depression. And the fact that I don’t know what to do about it. Medication only made it worse. My insurance doesn’t cover psychologists. I don’t know what to do, and I’m afraid that the bad days are gonna keep going on forever?

And it frustrates me because I was doing so good for so long. I fought through the medication when it made me lower than low. I found my sense of humor again. I made it so that I was able to stand on my own two feet again. I thought I beat it.

And then all of a sudden one day I woke up and I was drowning, and my body was refusing to even try to fight back anymore. And I don’t know what happened. And I don’t know what to do and I’m afraid that things are gonna get worse and I won’t be able to do anything.This disease is trying to kill me. I don’t want to kill myself, but I keep feeling like it would be easier if I weren’t alive.

All i want is for someone to sit and talk with me. And actually make me talk because they want to hear it. Not because they feel obligated to because I sit there and listen to them. Because with all of them I keep myself quiet because they’re only going to turn the conversation to themselves and list why their problems mean more than mine. 

All I want is for someone to sit here while I cry, like I am right now, and hold me. And tell me that everything will be okay until I believe them. I want someone to hold me until I fall asleep from crying and still be there when I wake up in the morning. 

I haven’t felt that way in months. I lost what I needed just when I needed it most. But, no, I was and am selfish for needing that from another person. God it would be nice to have someone to be there for you during your depression. It would be nice to be able to trust another human being.

I can’t explain why my depression came back in the first place. Maybe it was moving so many times. Maybe it was the fact that I realized how much of a screw up I was. Maybe it was because the weather was rainy and the clouds infiltrated that part of my brain that I had packed away so tightly for so long.
I lost everyone I hold deep. I have that problem. I lose everything I ever love right when I need it most.
My depression tells me I have no friends. Tells me that no one will ever love me back because if all these boys could leave you so easily then what would ever make you keepable. That if all my friends can literally say “I don’t want to be your friend anymore” and walk away just like Kristen did in the playground the week after Kindergarten ended, then why should anyone ever want to be around me, ever?

This isn’t me. That’s the thing. I know who I am. I’m a hopeful person, who never gives up. All I’ve ever dreamed of is the day when I will love truly and be loved in return. I dream of a world where everything works out eventually. I’m a funny person, who will always be the first to say something witty and make a joke to brighten someone’s day. That’s who I am.

Not this. Not this person stuck in the rain cloud of depression. But then, maybe, I think, just maybe this is who I actually am. This depressed state could be the real me while the funny, hopeful, loving Chelsea is a figment of my imagination and I will never be able to grasp onto her no matter how hard I try. I don’t deserve that life. Maybe I did something to warrant this sad, depressed state I find myself eternally fighting. 

Maybe no one cares about my problems because they aren’t important.

Maybe no one cares about me because I’m not important. Because I never will be. 

And what sucks is that I know I’ll get an outpouring of love from this post, with people trying to check up on me. And what’s worse, is I know when they ask how I am, and I will answer “Okay” (because that’s all I’ll ever say until they really push and question) and they’ll slowly start to believe me. And I know that in 2 weeks, everyone is going to go back to treating me like the piece of shit I guess I always am.

Because I am Chelsea. And me and my depression are not important. Because a girl with this many problems does not deserve neither love nor someone holding her as she cries.

Because I don’t want to kill myself, but it would be so much easier if I weren’t alive.

Because maybe the real Chelsea will never come back no matter how much I try.