Words left unspoken.

At the psychologist, she asked me lots of questions. About why I think I'm ADD, whats difficult, when is it hard to pay attention. This was indeed a simple task. But then, she inquired about why I think I have depression. I told her things that happened in the past, about Carly being diagnosed with it, losing an amazing friend Tim, troubles with Sam, and things I made up in my own head. I made it seem like situational depression. That can't be right. I didn't tell her that one little thing sets me off, a small comment, a rude look or gesture, and the rest of the day I'm in a sour mood. Or that sometimes I cry for hours in remembrance of past things I have lost. Or that, like tonight, I become upset about something as petty and snooty as not getting the lake house that I wanted, but then I begin to think about Africa. I told her about my dreams to go to Africa with the Peace Corps. And she assured me that it was good that thinking about those less fortunate than me is good because it makes me feel better. But it doesn't. Like tonight. When I was busy being a 1st world country, spoiled little bitchy rich girl, crying about a lake house, the 3rd world continent crossed my mind. Instead of making me feel better, I became disgusted. Disgusted at how brutally unfair life is. I looked around my at the surplus of clothes, and shoes, and nicknack whatevers, and I was disgusted at myself. I hated everything in that room. Including myself. I hated myself for being here, in a world of surplus, while people don't even have the basic necessities. And even though I'm conscious of this fact, I still find myself complaining about my petty "issues'.

Boo-hoo.

Poor me.

I can't focus.

Boo-hoo.

Poor me. 

I can't figure out my feelings for a boy.

Boo-hoo.

Poor me. 

I feel bad for the less fortunate so why don't I go lay down and cry in my $1,000 bed.

Surrounded by probably double that in clothes. 

Under a roof that costs nearly $1 million dollars.

Boo-hoo. 

Poor me. 

Much love, 

    Jane Doe.