I sat there wondering if Michael Jackson was right when he said "they don't really care about us". Though this time I wasn't sure who "they" were or who "us" was referring to. I had come across various situations when there was a "they" that didn't care about "us". This time it was different. I was hurt.
"They really don't care", I thought as I sat a corner on the kitchen floor. This time however, I wasn't referring to "us" but rather specifically, to "me".
My head was throbbing and I didn't feel like thinking about it any longer. The stress was starting to get to me. I had come to terms with the fact that I needed help. Denial was the reason I was on the kitchen floor anyway, admitting I needed help was the first step to getting up off the floor and cleaning the spilt cereal. As I got up slowly, I noticed the bowl hadn't shattered, yet its contents were all over me. "No use crying over spilt milk", I thought as I giggled at my bad pun.
After the mess had been dealt with, I inspected m