Tedious apparently.

When I met you, it was clear that you were ill. Mentally ill. I pitied you, I recognised such things. Believed I could help. You tell me I did, that I taught you how to live life and enjoy it.
I'm ill too you know. But you tell me i'm self-pitying. That I'm tedious. I am. I realise this. I fight just as hard as you do.
Lately. I'm not winning. Maybe it's being back here. Maybe its the fear that you've never understood, but its suddenly paralysing me. I'm frightened. I had a panic attack last night about getting on a plane. I don't even have a fucking flight booked.
I see people in the street and I know I have done more than they have with their lives, that I have more to fight for. But I see other people, the old people shuffling down the road and I ache for them. I wonder if they remember the joys of skipping through puddles, and to go out with abandon. I pity the people who have nothing left and I am so scared that will be me. You know what I'm scared of. You've never understood it. But I fear the days that I have now, of nothing to leave the house for. No more holidays, No more adventures. No more friends. Of being alone. Of dying. Of dying alone.
I'm 28, I shouldn't be feeling this way. You know I have for a long time, since I was 9 when I realised I wasn't immortal.
Lately, this is weighing on me. A pain in my chest. I spent a day in bed in San Adrian. I wanted to tell you then, except I knew your reaction. Today, tonight I told you and I got the reaction I expected.
I cried. I cry now. I've grown soft and weak. I felt like I did when I tried to tell Mother about being unhappy at school and she told me I was worthless.
If I'm supposed to be able to tell you anything, then why do you react this way? I can't tell you. Sometimes I feel even though you're sat next to me, as lonely as I did before you come along.
I'm tired. I'm tired of being sucked into this black hole, of the way I get treated by the others in my family. You're right. I do believe I'm shit. Currently. I fought through this once, twice, many times before and I will again. But its hard. Hard when I'm treated like they do, hard when you tell me I'm too boring and dull now. The ways you try and motivate me it doesn't work. I just feel worse.
It doesn't help. You don't help. I suffer from things the way you do too. Remember that.