There's a feeling you get, when you want to tell someone, anyone, you are having a bad day. Things aren't going right, you don't know why you feel the way you do, and then comes the thought... What gives me the right to complain? I'm sure other people are having far worse days. And you know your friends will tell you that. For every complaint you have, you know that someone else has another complaint, one far worse. They need you more than you need to complain. So you bottle it up, you tell no one, and it sits, and ferments in your soul, and that bad day, turns into a bad week. And still, you don't tell anyone. You might vent off some steam, just a bit, to those closest to you, but still, you don't say everything on your mind, you just give it out in little puffs of smoke, the fires inside trying to consume you. You hold it in. Your bad week becomes a bad month. You can't control your temper sometimes anymore. There's so much pain inside you feel like you are going to explode. But you know your problems aren't that bad, you know your friends have it worse, and you are still chugging along, still going, still venting teaspoons, when you're filled with gallons, but you can't explain it, because no one understands, but how could they, when you won't let them? But you can't let them. Because you know they also have problems and you won't burden them with yours. Days, weeks, months, seasons, years. It all compounds, it gets worth, you occasionally explode now, and you have no idea why. You cry it out, but you don't even remember what upset you in the first place. You can't find the source. So there is no point in telling anybody, because you don't even know. You're having happy days mixed in with the bad ones, as you tell yourself that it is just life you are experiencing. You don't need help, you never needed help. So you decide all is normal. Until you have another bad day.