I don’t like talking. I like being heard.

Ted: C-O-C-K-A-T-W-O. Cockatwo.

Michael: Isn’t cockatoo spelled with a T-O-O instead of a T-W-O

Ted: Not if you’re having more than one.

Michael: *stares at Ted; thinks for a moment… not bad Obama face*

Name that drama! :D I love this show…. (hint: season 2, episode 4)

They say everything you tell your parents means the entire world — every word. By this I mean everything I say to my parents means everything to me — even the smallest thing because they are my parents. They’re the two people in my life that are supposed to hang on my every world and love me indefinitely. Every word is important. If it’s not, why say it all? So when everything I tell them is rejected or reworded or loathed or destroyed, I feel rejected, “rewordered,” loathed, or destroyed. When I spend hours writing out a letter to them over an argument I’m having to ultimately be rejected, it shatters my entire fucking heart. And not only is said letter rejected, I’m attacked. This is not my fucking problem. Deal with it on your own. I have my own fucking problems to deal with. Well, maybe that’s not exactly the words that are said, but that’s how my heart translates it. And it’s close to one of the most horrible feelings in the entire world.

I feel unloved. I feel loathed. I feel uncared for. And it’s one thing if your parents get upset over one thing, but when they argue over everything you say and argue just to argue, you become that, and you become trash. Rejected and dirty. Unloved and arguing everything. What I fear more than being “unloved” by my parents is becoming that and arguing over everything with other people.

I shut down.

No one sees my tears. No one is allowed to. Crying is selfish. That’s what my parents always taught me. Crying means you’re only thinking about yourself. Self pity. It’s a horrible thing.

But if I swear to fucking God, if I had a drop less self pity in me, I would be dead. If I cannot fight for myself in my own head, I don’t fight at all. Living is not an option.

To whoever is reading this, I don’t know if I’m communicating my feelings perfectly. I’m in a horrible mood, but I hope just someone can connect to me on some level. Maybe then I’ll feel a bit more normal. I’ll fear arguing with others less because really it’s a wonderful thing if done properly (I don’t care what my parents say — arguing is the only way to sort things out).

Maybe I’ll decide to open up more.

This is not a suicide note. This is not me ever planning to commit suicide. I’m way stronger than that. I’m holding on to something very real and close to unbreakable — for if that thing broke, so would I. I’m sorry to start getting vague, but my “unbreakable” could become very fragile if I shared it. In away, my “unbreakable” is myself, and I believe in myself — that part of me that is extremely determined to fight off this pain. That part is unbreakable.

I don’t believe in any other person. No one has ever given me the chance or shown themselves even slightly worthy. The people I love are fragile. I love them because they are fragile just like me. I see their pain, and I relate to it. But it hurts a whole lot, and it’s corrupting me.

That’s why I have to get out. Sooner rather than later. I don’t want to be corrupted any further. Maybe disappearing would make them realize just how corrupted they’ve made me — and then they’ll realize it. Crying and self pity is a horrible thing. But because you haven’t seen me cry — haven’t let me show my pain, you’ve never even known something was wrong.

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops” because that was the name of his dog
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row      of X’s and he had to ask his father what the X’s meant. 
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

 Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn” because that was the name of the season
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new      paint
And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black      frames
And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see      Santa Claus
And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it

Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem
And he called it “Innocence: A Question” because that was the      question about his girl
And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never      showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end of the Apostle’s Creed went
And he caught his sister making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed or even talked
And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway      because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed his father snoring loudly

That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem
And he called it “Absolutely Nothing”
Because that’s what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn’t      think he could reach the kitchen. 

—the perks of being a wallflower, Stephen Chbosky