I cry through my skin.

 And it's the way my therapy is going...Or at least the way my hospital stay went almost a year ago. I wasn't meant to get better, they didn't give a damn if I got better or not...That wasn't their job...Their job was to make sure I wouldn't cut out my throat. They didn't care if I was happy, as long as I didn't die. And my psychiatrist isn't there to talk to...He's there to see if the pills are working. He's there to push more medication down my throat. My psychologist is there to talk to...But only about why I won't talk to normal people who I don't pay to spend time with. They don't care if I get better, they really don't. They'll talk to me, begrudgingly, but I have to make myself get better....But I don't think I can do it by myself. If I did, I wouldn't be here nearly a year later! I need help, and I can't talk to people...People don't understand...They can't fathom what it's like to live without hope for a better tomorrow or they think that I should just go kill myself since I'm so unhappy. I've fucking tried! Time and time again...And time and time agian...I failed. Story of my life, huh?