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This is another modified entry I made and never showed anyone.

I'm different. I've known that for years. I don't like it. But I can't seem to change. I did the exact same things as everyone else did when I was younger. But I didn't see it like everyone else. I am unique. But because of it people tend to think I am like everyone else my age. I am not like them. I don't like the same things. I wonder if I'm depressed. I could. One of my teacher's says she doesn't want anyone to feel isolated. She hasn't seen what I do. Sitting by myself. Talking to no one. I have always done that. I believe the reason I am like this is that I am afraid. Afraid I will say the wrong things. Afraid that I would have false friends. Afraid they will think of me as being on drugs or something. And the worst part is... I am letting them.
In elementary school I played by myself most of the time and in the 3rd grade I wanted to kill myself. I might have if I didn't start writing. Now that I think of it, there are a lot of people I should thank for my life. Being alive I should say. One of the most important is my imagination. If it weren't for that I might be here today.
It's okay to be different I know. It makes me unique. But I suffer from self-guilt. I know I shouldn't be hard on myself but I can't help it. It seems that I am not good enough for myself. When I make a mistake I hear myself say, "Don't do that again!" or "Why can't I do anything right!?" this voice is almost always yelling at me.
Somtimes I am really happy. Talking, moving; on the surface I seem to be all right but, if people look past that they would see a torn up little boy. Ripped by negative comments, actions and guilt. The bullies who made sport of my pain, and the feeling of being by myself. The hatred and sadness that has welled up inside of me is very strong. Maybe everyone is right. Maybe I am a psycho. Someone who needs help. But having no real friends can be depressing. Really. Sitting alone in the lunchroom looking at each happy face laughing, having a good time. I am envious. I will admit that. I just wish that I could see what they see. Do what they do. And create connections out of my dark place.
The only escape from all this is a place I control. A place I can make happy or sad. Scary or welcoming. Hot or cold. My writing is the only opening for the countless tales that are echoing hollowly through the corridors that make up my mind. Yearing for a way out.
I have the way.