And to think I was actually proud. I’m crying as I write this, the saltwater tears streaming down from my eyes to under my shirt and on my bare chest. And to think I was actually proud of myself, being glad that I’ve gone this far without shedding a tear; doing so well even with all the crappy **** and stress I’ve been taking. I’ve been taking and taking, thinking, having faith in myself, and believing that I’m strong enough to be okay. But when you think about it, There have been so many times that I could've sworn that I should’ve fainted. That all of the pain would burn me out, and make me cry under pressure. But no, I stayed alive the whole time, hyper and happy even at my most tired. The only tiny inconvenience was that my mind was completely blank. I tell you, I am dead serious when I say that. I couldn’t think, no matter how hard I tried, but I got over that soon enough too. I should’ve known. It all leads to the undying hail running out of the corners of my eyes, my quivering mouth wanting to scream out some things I know wouldn’t be okay to say out loud. I was actually PROUD of those stupid-**** grades when they don’t mean **** to people that don’t know the story behind the percentages. I was actually PROUD of myself, keeping myself strong, or whatever it means to people when they are living through the hardest **** after everything. Those **** people are fantasy; fiction and only bled into the ink of pages in a book. I’m not angry, although my tone seems like it. I’m not mad, only at myself. I’m **** sad for myself, I really do feel depressed for him. He’s such a sad, sad man. Having hope has always been such a sad curse I’ve been stuck with; having hope is another one of the many men that let me down even when I take that one leap of faith. I’ve calmed down now, but I think I would’ve exploded and become livid if I didn’t write this down. So I didn’t exactly write this for you, reader. I wrote it for my fingers, my headache, my buckets of dried water I spilled. Thank you, darling. For listening.