Hurt

I feel hurt when you ignore me. When you both talk about work even at the dinner table instead of asking about my day. On the rare occcasions that you do speak to me, it is a quick, thoughtless exercise. I wonder how the two of you- such generous, kind, helpful and smart people- can be so indifferent to your own child. You are quick to see the suffering of others, but not of your own flesh and blood. You ignore me in my low phases, stoutly denying the existence of the depression that has eaten me away from the inside. You, of all people, are supposed to help, to be there for me. But you aren't. You are not the people I can turn to on the bad days, when all I have been doing for hours is cry.

Of course, I love you. How can I not? I only wish you could understand.