Titles Are Not Names, They're Stamps

   Recently I was told that the name "A Clinically Depressed Author" was me just crying out for attention. Trying to be noticed. Being needy.

No.

   I was given that title by another, and I found it amusing. It shows the self-mocking side of myself, yet speaks a hard truth at the same time. 

"You haven't even published anything, you can't call yourself an author."

That's also not entirely true, although I am not published, I write stories to myself. I read them, I am my own fan. If you read something written by another, you are reading the author's work. But I'm the reader. Yes. I am a different person when I write and when I read. Therefor, I am not that person, I'm the other person, in which ever order. 

Truly,

a clinically depressed author

Here For Them, But Where For I?

    Water works again last night. Third night in a row, they seemed to be getting progressively worse. It doesn't help that just down the hallway from my bedroom is a noose on the kitchen counter (long story), the temptation is excruciating. The only thoughts that stop me are the ones of crying family and the few friends by my side currently. The other half is my gnawing curiosity of the afterlife. Would things be better or worse for me on that end? I'd like to think I'd get the choice of forgetting my life's memories or not. Meeting angels, idols, departed family. My option to stay is out of pity for others grief, my option to leave has an unknown outcome. But as humans, we all fear the unknown as well as change.

    Lately it seems that I'm here for everyone, to listen to their problems, to help solve said problems. They only come to me to complain about their life.
  "I hate my friends."
  "Then maybe you should take a break from them and stand alone for awhile."
  "Thanks."

  "I am so stressed, and I don't have time for anything."
  "All teenagers are stressed, not just you. Talk to you teachers or VP's about lessening your work load."
  "Thanks."

    But never do they ask about me. Never do they give me a solution to my stress, or my social life.
   "That sucks." followed by a sad face emoticon, or maybe just the emoticon. Listen to me, I truly am your typically whiny-ass teenager. Yes, I'm aware that other people have bigger problems than I do and less people to talk to about it, but I have people. They still do nothing. So it doesn't matter if you have someone to talk to or not, they won't listen.

Me to you,
A clinically depressed author