Where the hell do you get off? You call yourself a friend? Sorry if I’m relaying some information that you might not like. Perhaps if you opened your eyes for one second, you would see what I see. Too bad that you are too blinded by some teenage infatuation. It’s nice to know that after two years of being “friends,” you can call me a liar and then tell me that I need to grow up and let go.
“It’s frustrating”?? For who? For you, because I won’t tell you a secret?
“I don’t see why you don’t let people in.” You don’t? Because of people like you. People who hurt you ruin who you are—a personal quote that seems to only become truer by the minute.
“I think you don’t tell people because you enjoy being depressed. You can’t stand happiness and always make your life go towards the downward spiral.” Do I really? Perhaps you hadn’t noticed how happy I am then. Or was, before I talked to you anyway. Perhaps you’re such a good friend that you didn’t realize that life has never been as great as it is right now.
“You need it. You’re its parasite...you cling to your depression.” Thanks. Lovely. It’s nice to know that you view me as a bloodsucking pest. It’s nice to know that just because some white suburbanite boy read a couple of psychology books that he can meet me, talk to me, and suddenly diagnose my life for me. Thanks for telling me what’s wrong with me without even beginning to understand why I might be this way. You think you know me, when in fact, you know nothing. Because I wouldn’t trust you with my hopes much less my greatest fears or most treasured secrets.
And wait. Here comes your apology. “I’m sorry.” For what?? For saying what you think to be true? Why else would you suddenly ambush me with my own shortcomings? After all, only true friends would do that.
Thanks for being just as supportive of my decisions as everyone else. And thank you once again, because I will never ever stop the echo in my mind: “You’re its parasite.”
3/11/00
