Everyone knows about me, but no one truly knows me

Back to writing again.. I wished there was more that I can do to get my mind of things that have been bothering me. But I guess it would be weird if I don't have any troubles afterall, I'm one troublesome girl. Had to keep writing to myself to keep me from thinking bad and sad stuff to myself. It is most sad when everyone knows about you, and yet none knows you. It's like I'm me. And that's it. Everything stops there. What I do, they care of course. But what I feel? They don't go too deep thinking about that. And I don't really blame them. I mean, what the heck, everyone has their problems and troubles. Who the heck would go so far into wanting to know about your troubles? Professionals I guess. But even that they do it just for the sake of what they have to do. It's their job okay. If I were them I would rather not having to know what a growing adult is thinking. Cos they say they're difficult. Growing adults, that is. And I'm beginning to think that I am, difficult. They say those who seems cheerful has the saddest secrets. And yes, I do have them too. So what? It's not like telling anyone any of it would make me feel a lot better. Because let me tell you, at first they cared. They listen. They try to help. But then things go on for too long, happened for too many a times, they ditch you too. You're just another troubled teenager with attitude problems and all. If this was why there were so many social issues arising, I could relate. I could really relate. Because sometimes, some crazy, unbearable times, I would just want to do every crap I could think of. Just to show that how nice and good I've been all these time and no one give a damn. While sometimes I wanted to walk out of the door and walk and walk away far far away from home, thinking of nothing else but the blue sky and then walk a long way back home, realising how I'd also had happiness a long time ago. Everyone has their own feelings cooped up inside for too long. Maybe I just have too much time on my hands to spend digging it all out. But then, a sadder of me makes me a thinker. And when you're sad, I don't think you could think of any happier thoughts. And so sadness eats me up. Sharing me with its friends : loneliness, guilt and fear. You would think there's bound to be a happy ending to this. But the truth is, there isn't. So long as there's a part of your memories that are kept away because it is too tearful, the feelings would always be like a cycle. Starts when you're sad, and only minimising when you're happier.