I have always been the kind of person who gives more than they could ever dream of getting back. No matter how many times I say I’ll stop, unfortunately, I can’t get myself to. Normally I don’t complain, but doing this harms me more than it helps me. In the end, I’m the one who feels awful. I should feel good about helping someone out there, and I do.

And I always say it’s a token of my generosity and out of the kindness of my own heart, but deep down, I do want something out of it. But I don’t think what I want is a selfish thing. I just want reciprocity, that’s all. I don’t think that’s so much to ask.

Apparently, it is.

I try my best to help a lot of people, some that don’t even deserve it. But I think because little to no people have been there to help me when I have been in need, I know what that’s like. I never want anyone to know what that’s like, and so I try to help. But I almost always end up being upset when they’re not there for me as soon as I need their help. And I guess part of me needs to stop. Because, not everyone – if not anyone at all – is like me, and understands the quintessence of an exchange. Of emotions. Of trust. Of secrets. Of vulnerability.

As I was having a conversation with my sister the other day, she admitted that she had told the girl that used to bully me when I was younger about an incident that happened at home, in which I reacted poorly to my food delivery being put in the fridge without anyone informing me. Small, but telling. To that, she asked my sister if she knew why I lashed out that way.

“I don’t know,” replied my sister. “I guess she just… expected it of me.”

From that, the girl was able to tell just the kind of person I am when it comes to the way I treat others and expect to be treated.

“That’s why. She does things for people without anyone telling her to so she expects people to do things for her without her telling them to.”

The first thing I found odd and amusing about that was how a girl who used to taunt me and make me feel bad about myself as a child was able to psychoanalyze me as an adult, but to this day, she cannot say a single nice thing or make a positive remark to my face. But still, it made me think that if even one of the cruelest and most heartless people I’ve ever known can see right through that side of me, then why aren’t I that transparent to everybody else? To the people that actually matter?

I recently lost one of my best friends, and it’s not something I regret. Someone who thought that not being able to be more than what we already had was much worse than not having me at all. He has to learn what it means to lose me to get me back. I’m not punishing him. I’m not being vindictive. At the core of it all, I still want what’s best for people. I think it’s for the best.

The other day, I received a text begging me to come back. While it was a heartwarming message and though I had to take a long time to think about it, I ended up replying that I just wasn’t ready.

Sometimes the timing isn’t right. Something is just off. It wouldn’t feel the same.

See, I can’t always worry and look out for other people because I’ve spent my whole life doing that. Part of me always will. But that part is exhausted. I have seen myself pouring so much of my soul into people that have only given back a quarter of the effort. My best friend gave me that effort – he lost me for other reasons – but I still cared so much more than I should have.

I can’t spend the rest of my life caring about people that are no good for me—people that deter me from being truly happy.

I can’t continue to surround myself with people that make me feel invalidated. If I quit these habits and things and people now, it brings me one step closer to fully realizing my self-worth.

I have spent a lot of my days this past year breaking down in my room and hardly coming out of there other than for a drink of water or to use the bathroom. No one ever seemed to ask what the matter was and everyone seemed to just assume I was some angsty, forlorn, sad young adult—which I am—but I can’t understand how someone can’t bother to ask why. Especially my own loved ones.

Maybe because I know all the signs, so I rush to help someone when I see them. But other people… they’re oblivious.

Maybe it’s my fault. I don’t let anyone in, so I can’t expect anyone to want to peer into the inside of my life and fix it for me.

But I still cry for help. All. The. Time. I send signs. Self-deprecating ones, maybe. But they’re signs nonetheless. I want people to see that I’m hurting. I want people to help.

I need to stop wanting people to help. I need to accept that not everyone has the same heart as me. People care more about themselves than anyone else.

I need to be more like that. I wish I could. But the heart I have is heavy from what it’s ventured into and sad from what it’s seen and compassionate from the flowers it’s cultivated.

Ultimately, it falls upon how you perceive yourself and how well you know your worth. A strong, confident person won’t just let everyone walk all over them and take their kindness for weakness. But a strong, confident person is also able to realize that although sometimes the efforts won’t always be reciprocated, they are guaranteed to always yield good results and their contribution will bring someone happiness one way or another. Sometimes knowing it’s made a difference is all that matters.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop believing in humanity, in helping others, in being a good person. No matter how much someone has hurt you or how little they’ve helped. My heart is too good for that. Yes, sometimes it’s bad. It can be the worst. But it’s not the worst thing in the world.

I’ve still affected someone and the course of their life somehow. Whether they care to admit it or not. How deeply they acknowledge that or don’t. On what level they realize I did or didn’t.

My love is not a weakness. It is one of my most beautiful and resilient strengths. It wills me to see the strength in others, even if they may not always care to seek mine.

I’m loving, and that’s powerful.