Never mind. Forget it. You wouldn't understand anyway.

It takes too much energy to reach out for the help I suppose I “need.” The help that won’t help, and against which I will resist, fighting tooth and nail. To listen to the reasonings of people who are not me, tell me things from their own perspectives about why I should or shouldn’t think a certain way or feel a certain way. I know that nobody knows me, truly. Or if they do, possibly that is why I feel so abandoned. Because they realize what they are dealing with and have written me off. I could go around fishing for sympathy or an ear to bend, but why? I would just tire out the listener. And I’m tired, too. Too tired to say “help me.” I suppose I’m a little bitter, too. I would have hoped for the universe or even some earthly savior to plead for me and save me from my own wicked, destructive self. 

I suppose I'm like an old paint can that has had most of its contents used up and is sitting around waiting for someone to open me up and stir up the contents. Those paint cans can be pretty tough to pry open. It takes a lot of patience and persistence to even begin to pry the crusted lid from the can. If the can is too empty most would tend to just toss it. Maybe there is some useful paint left in the can, maybe not. Too much work to find out. That's me. I suppose there are many other, more deserving, paint cans and I am just getting payback for my own lack of empathy over the years. I’m even too tired to carry on this tirade against myself. It’s pointless.

If