Tales of a Secret Rockstar

Today, I am unhappy.
It's bigger than a simple circumstance or event.
I am unhappy. I am confused and scared. Life just seems out of control, and I find it hard to care. Not that I don't care, more that I feel like I can do nothing about it. I'm drifting like a ship with no sails. Or motor. Or rudder.
I don't like being sad. I feel like a burden on society. I was always taught to be happy around people, so that I wouldn't bring them down. That's how I spent alot of my depressed years. I don't know if I'm as fun as I appear. Sometimes I think it's just an act or something. Not that I don't like having fun. I just don't think I'm very good at doing it without hiding, or trying to impress people.

Maybe I'm just too hard on myself. I've discovered that I'm not very good at grieving. I hate showing emotion. Of any kind really. If I'm happy, people make fun of me because somehow being happy is stupid, or out of style now. Maybe that's being a little too dramatic, but sometimes it seems that way, especially with my guy friends. I don't like telling them things I like, because they tell me I'm a girl. Seriously. It's like people think I want to be a woman or something. I just don't think masculinity lies in whether you like action movies or not . . .

I knew a guy at camp who was really effeminite. We, being 15 year old high school guys, made fun of him alot. He listened to Britney Spears and Shakira and danced really effeminitely and talked with a lisp. I think if I knew him now I'd be alot more gracious. He was a good guy. And I don't think he was gay. I think I respect how much he didn't compromise himself. He couldn't not be effeminite. So he didn't stop just because we teased him. That's cool . . .

Anyways, if I'm sad, I don't feel like I can say anything for some reason. I just feel like I'm bringing people down or something. Again, this is mostly with my guy friends. I don't know what it is. Maybe I just can't relate. I'm not a good communicator sometimes. That's why I write. So, I feel kind of . . . trapped? I don't know. I just seem to have all this stuff deep inside that never really comes out. And I don't notice it most of the time, but every once in a while it surfaces. Then it's scary. I don't make much sense. I have trouble accepting that I'm different. I'm afraid to be like somekind of snobby writer who wears black trench coats and makeup to prove how different he is. I don't want to prove it. I'm scared of it! But it's there, all the time.

I'm ranting.
Sorry.
Actually, I'm not sorry at all.