The pleasures and pains, the losses and gains.

"Hope hurts more often than it helps."  - Taken from my journal, 11/9/10

No problem handed to you is without an answer, but you will hardly ever be handed that answer. Everything is a test, and you're capable of overcoming, of understanding. Just find the strength to do so.

I just hate everything.

I hate waiting all day for a text that doesn't come. The anticipation, the hoping, and then having to go to sleep disappointed.

I hate that I do what feels good over what is right.

I hate friends who promise to always be there for you - until something better comes along.

I hate that I would give up anything for them but they wouldn't pass up on a party to help me through my depression.

I hate friends who were never really friends in the first place.

I hate living every day knowing that I'm not what I could be. That I don't know how to live up to my full potential.

I hate loving people with the realization that any relationship I'm ever involved in will be 60/40, 70/30, with me always on the losing side.

I hate that I'm incapable of keeping anyone that I love in my life.

I hate that I can't make things okay on my own.

Dear best friend,

I don't know what it is. I've never - probably never? - felt so comfortable around another person, not enough to actually (try and) discuss my internal issues, enough to try new things that I may not have even considered before.  And while I'm probably not exactly open compared to other people, where I've come to be is pretty out there for me.  The problem is that I'm more of a listener as compared to someone who may openly spill everything in their head, and you definitely made sure to point out that this bothers you - that you want to feel lost in conversation with me, and that I need to work on offering that. Fuck. How?

I know that I don't say the things that I should often enough, and I that I need to make it a point to. I want you to know how fucking brilliant you are - do you even realize that? That you're a talented, gorgeous person who can do so much better for himself? I won't tell you that it will be easy, because I don't believe anywhere inside of me that it will. And I'm not saying that you can accomplish this tomorrow. But it can happen, and it needs to happen. You deserve for it to happen.

And even though this will probably make me sound like a complete hypocrite, I'd like to see you focus on the good in your life instead of constantly settling on the bad, because it's not the only thing you're ever going to have. I just want to see you absolutely, genuinely happy. That's probably the only thing I'm not willing to pass on here.

I'm sorry that you haven't had better in your life, that you don't hear these things often, that you don't feel like you're worthwhile, but I want you to know that I know that you deserve better.

"Maybe nothing's as important as we used to believe."

Taken from my notebook, the outlet I need to keep myself from falling apart.

Hoping brings me nothing but pain.

I feel extremely gullible and utterly retarded for believing in your words, in the feelings associated with you, as if I didn't have an index of past pains to compare to. And I constantly saw signs that I pretended were things I could work on, I made excuses for you, and the whole time I was only fueling my own depression. This whole inevitable end.

They say everything is relative, so how do you change your views on life so as not to be constantly at war with your own inner self? I can come up with the arguments, repeat them as if they were some sort of personal mantra, but I can't find a way to actually believe in them.

I hate everything a little more every day, and I'm afraid I was masking that with what happiness you did provide me - using him as some sort of barrier between myself and the outside world. There are better ways to do that, ways to actually learn to love yourself, but I'm terrified of putting in the effort only to realize that I'm incapable of mastering them.

I just want to vomit, and I can't tell if it's because I'm upset with you or disgusted with myself.

And I was just bombarded again. THAT'S COOL.

You know, to be honest, I'm never completely sure of anything - because who is? Is that such a terrible thing? In reality, most of us accept that not everything in life can be planned. We work with what we're given, hope for the best, do what makes us happy in the moment while still trying our best to attain what we want long-term. We realize that this is possible without having to completely predetermine every major point in our lives, and we do so without feeling any less accomplished than those who do the opposite. We go with the flow, if you will, and I personally see nothing wrong with this.

The point is, you really can stop calling me a child for living this way. In reality you're just a cynical asshole who can hardly keep a handle on anything he's involved in anyway, who believes he's some kind of psychologist, and who always feels the need to tell me how wrong I am in my own personal decisions for reasons I can't even fathom. Honestly, you could probably use to take a closer look at your own life before rebuking mine. Maybe if you could control your own emotions I would actually be able to trust you.

"Please don't read this until you get home."

That's how your letter started. I remember it still, because you gave it to me without even looking me in the eye and then took off on your bicycle. To be honest, I read it as soon as you were out of eyesight.

It was something like our sophomore year of high school, back when this whole passing notes thing was the norm. I don't know why we did it - it's not like we ever had much of anything new to say. We were on the phone together every single night, so what did it matter, you handing me a note that I couldn't read until I got home? I was just going to call you as soon as I was there or as soon as I read it, whichever my attention focused on first.

I unfolded the note, which was written in pencil and already showing wear; obviously, whatever was inside had really bothered you. I read your words and I went on my way, calling you that night as always.

And you didn't answer.

This was phase one in the process of losing you.

Just noting.

Thanks for actually giving a shit about me, actually sticking by my side instead of berating me for the things you're not proud of.

Some people aren't as willing.