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.