A little history of what's going on can be found in this thread, posts 1 and 7. I made an effort to speak with my mother today. I’m not ready to talk to her about my self injury just yet, but I did bring up the topic of depression, which I feel I may be suffering from. [It started with me telling her that my cousin believes he’s suffering from depression, just so I could see what her reaction would be. She seemed really sympathetic saying that she wished he would talk to a therapist if he’s feeling that way. She went on to explain that she believes depression isn’t passed down in the family, but sometimes that you develop when going through a troubled life. Anyways some where in the middle of the conversation she asked me “Do you think you’re depressed?” I wasn’t really sure how to answer that because the question was so out of the blue and I wasn’t expecting her to ask it. But I did tell her that; yes I do feel that I suffer from depression, and that I feel I have been for a while now. It kinda felt good to tell her, to let her know that I’m having problems and I may need outside help to fix it. Well it felt good until she decided that I am not depressed. She told me that she’s had depression and I don’t have it. I mean I don't know what to do, she doesn't listen to me when I'm trying to reach out and tell her something. When ever I have a problem or I need help, it's always never bad enough to where she thinks I need help. Anything bad that happens to me is never bad enough. Like one Christmas I was trying to open a blister pack that had a bottle of perfume, and I wasn't using the knife safely [I was in a hurry] and I accidentally cut my finger wide open. It was bleeding bad, and I told her that I thought I needed stitches because it wouldn't stop, and she just took me home and told me to put a band-aid on it. The cut was deep enough where you could practically see bone, but that wasn't bad enough for her. Yet when my Husband came home one night from work and had a cut he got by accident, and she said he better go see a doctor and get stitches. I mean what the fuck. Does she even care about me? But that's something she's always done. Anything I go through, or any problems I have are nothing. They mean jack-shit to her. If I tell her about a problem I'm having, it always ends up being some how about her. I'm so fuckin' sick of it. I mean I was really trying to talk to her about my problems and I was thinking if it felt right, I might even tell her about the cutting, but then she turns about and decides she knows what I'm feeling and I'm not depressed. She says I get the blues from time to time, everyone get em. Grrrr --- I'm so fuckin' pissed right now.