I am unable to please. I set down my insecurities and my pride, attempting to put forth a semi-valiant effort to try, and I endeavor to assist those around me to find a relative state of contentment, but I can’t do it. Every angle is the wrong one, and every approach that I take is inappropriate. I am not troubled by this, however; when my desire to comfort is pure and sincere, I am assured in the fact that the confusion and happiness is one that cannot be repaired by me simply because the cause of such angst is something or someone other than myself. I give what I can, and that is all I can do. That is all that I care to do because it is unfair to ask me for more.

I have my friends that comfort me, that help me, but their enrollment in my recuperation is brief. I am appalled to find myself feeling this way, but after building so many well-planned walls and deceiving faces its frustrating to have to deal with the complete candidness of others. My source of strength is not found in anyone on this earth, and if I am ever consumed by the intrinsic gloom of the world I climb out of my black depths alone. Why must I always be the happy one? Why is the voice that greets me on the other side of the phone so dejected and drenched in self pity half the time? Do they have any freaking idea how all-embracing my despair can be? To play this off and to pretend does nothing but pull a sheer curtain over the problem, thereby allowing neglect to swell and magnify the pain. If they knew how truly strained my voice is at times when I laugh and try to lift their spirits, all while wiping the tears from my eyes during the chat on my cell, trying so hard to cheer.

Every time I jump from elation to despondency and back again I break. The panic that sweeps over me every time I feel this is sinister. It hurts. I realize, however, that the world can’t solve my problems. Why would I attempt to dump my cares on anyone else when only I can do anything to alter or obliterate them?

I don’t. Why does everyone else?