I confess I read your messages last night without answering directly because I cried with joy and I'm tired. That's so many nice things that I don't feel worthy to read what you write.

I can't understand how I can look so immature when everything was fine before. I got so angry with someone, thinking I could dictate their life; but I didn't. I received a lot of criticism, I was violently belittled. I'm almost a liar in the eyes of others, while I try to deal with the problems I have been going through for months. I do everything to be fine and respectful, as mature as possible, but I don't know how to handle several pieces of information, just one without letting go. It looks like I'm five years old, while I'm just suffocating in my brain.

I know that my uneasiness isn't an excuse, but I make an effort when I'm under 18 years of age and without psychological or psychiatric follow-up. I'm hurt that people who love psychology hurt me so much. I'm not a murderer or the Devil, am I?