Don't Mind Me, I'm Just Venting Here

I'm most likely going to regret this, but I need to vent somehow. I'm only writing this to gain some sense of clarity, apparently venting makes people feel better for some reason.

For the past few weeks, I've been very depressed, more than I usually am in its three year life span (if it weren't for fear, I would've been dead). More often than not, I've found myself just bedridden, unable to find the motivation to just get up and do anything. I would just stare at the ceiling or at a blank page, trying to muster the motivation to write anything. When I first joined this site, I had billions of ideas just begging to be written. As time went on though, they've all died slowly and painfully, it's especially painful due to the fact that I enjoy writing. However, there was one story I came up with that seemingly made a breakthrough, but approaching 30,000 words, I've pretty much given up on it.

Now I feel like I'll just spend the two months of my summer staring into the deep, menacing abyss that is my ceiling and hope that my lifeless husk of a body gasps its last, meaningless, breath.

I've tried consulting a therapist about this, to have one person whom I felt comfortable enough to talk to. Unfortunately, it didn't work out as I sat silent in each in every session. The whole time, I felt that all of my therapist's attempts to get through to me were just a series of manipulative ploys, only made as apathetic demagoguery to just make money.

My Uncle said that he understood my depression, but again, it only felt like pure lies when he went on to say that I should just "get over it" and to "not be depressed" like as if I could do it in five seconds. Needless to say his ignorant suggestions angered me. Every week, he visits to see my grandmother and see to her needs. Every time, he asks her how is the family doing. She responds that the whole family, especially me, is depressed, he simply says to get over it, again that remark is always targeted at me as my name is always present before that statement is uttered. He always manages to sneak in the "college talk" as well, I think he's developed a special talent for that. We could be talking about the Chinese food he ordered and the next thing he'll say is, "you should be an engineer and apply to every Ivy League school (I'm sure as hell I'm not good enough to even be acknowledged by them)." I appreciate that he actually cares about my future, but he should know that when I tell him that I don't want to be an engineer, I don't want to be an engineer.

Maybe I thought writing would take my mind off of my depression, it has for other people. It seemed to work for a while as I wrote my first story. But with each chapter I wrote, my inspiration died more and more. I thought that perhaps I'm not getting any feedback because people don't really know about the topic I'm writing a crossover about. so I continued on. Then I found stories about the same exact topic, nearly all of which received much more attention and feedback. I came to the conclusion that my writing is horrible to a point that people don't even know what to say. I started to realize that writing only perpetuated this feeling of helplessness and irrelevance, mostly due to the lack of feedback, but I should just shut my mouth about it.

Besides, I don't have any right to complain. At least my I had more likes on my story than dislikes, maybe I did something right.

At this point, I'm don't know what to do with my life. Going into twelfth grade, teachers in my school are telling me that I should know what I want to major in and what college I want to go to, I don't have the slightest idea in anything. People say that I should be an artist, they think I'm good at drawing for some reason, but my Mom will kill me before I even try, she speaks of artists like it's traumatizing for her.

I'd be nice if I had someone to talk to, however it seems like I wasn't put on Earth for that reason. Maybe to write, or draw, or fail to meet people's unrealistic expectations, or to wallow in my depression as I try to obtain a sense of belonging in my life, yeah, mostly for the latter.

I would continue on, but I don't want to bitch about my life any longer. I might more write stories about ponies in the future, maybe tomorrow, I can't stop, it's become yet another vicious cycle of mine.

If you made it this far, then congratulations, you've just wasted your time, you should be proud of yourself you time waster you, I know I am.