How many sheep are there?

I've been feeling the alienation a lot recently. More than usual. I find it hard to talk about. I keep seeing myself as that annoying guy, the one who keeps bringing up that one thing long after everyone else has stopped talking about it, the subject that we'd all rather forget and move on from, and we just don't want to hear about it any more, please, shut up! You know, all that. I've felt that way when speaking to people my whole life; topics of conversation change long before I'm finished with them. That sums up a lot of my communication problems, actually.
From what I've read, one of the biggest frustrations for multiples is that no one can accept that it doesn't stop. I look normal, I sound normal, and for the most part I act relatively normal, so people see me as normal. Even when they know why I'm different, they still see me as normal most of the time. They see Alex, who from time to time has depression. Or they see Alex, who has these other people who come out sometimes. What singletons have difficulty grasping is this: I'm like this all the time. Curing depression isn't as easy as curing the blues. Switching out alters is neither voluntary nor predictable. And my problems don't go away just because you're not comfortable dealing with them.
Ironically, I'm not alone on this. Other alters have reported the same feelings - that people ignore or reject them because they're sick of hearing about their issues. One of the most common annoying things they hear are "Aren't you over that yet?" or "What, you're still in therapy?" and similar. A lot of the reason Tasha left me is because I wouldn't (couldn't) stop being depressed for her. My parents are convinced that this is something that will go away, despite the fact that virtually all multiples I've heard of are at least twice my age. The people I open up to gradually talk to me less and less until I'm absent from their lives. No one wants to have to deal with something like this constantly.
Anyway, that's the reason I guilt-trip myself so much about talking about myself. I even worry about it on my Own Personal Blog, which is supposed to be about me in the first place. It was actually just the other day I realized how absurd that is... well, Lank finally snapped and told me. So, really the point I'm trying to make is this. I hurt. I believe I've stated that. But it doesn't stop there - I am still hurting. Always. There is always another bout of depression to somehow hurdle, another spring-loaded trap in the crevasse of my mind, another monster in the darkness looking to convert or torture me. It. Never. Stops.
Do you see why I see myself as a burden? It just keeps piling on, far more than anyone is prepared to deal with. And it doesn't stop. I've managed to keep myself afloat by becoming, as previously mentioned, one tough son of a bitch. (The cockroach; easy to crush, damn near impossible to kill.) Add this to the fact that I'm a master of manipulation, able to slip under peoples' defenses, and it's little wonder people aren't prepared to get involved with me.
It's not right, really. I've always developed early. I started talking at five months, and was able to recognize symbols by six. I could write my name before most children could recognize the letter A. I guess this follows suit. Depression is one thing, but I shouldn't have started really cracking up for another ten years at the very least. Instead it showed up at an age when developmental angst is supposed to occur anyway, which really hasn't helped. At all.
This may sound like I'm boasting, in some sick way. I guess I am... but really, everything I might have to be proud of has gone wrong. Every strength I have is also a weakness. My self-awareness and mental prowess only turned me into this long before I was ready to deal with it. My toughness has kept me alive (barely), but it's also kept me from seeking much-needed help. My intelligence and artistic flair have been used against me, weaving me deeper and deeper into my own internal world. My morality and desire to do good is twisted and warped by my own systems and Other forces. My big heart lacks the ability to self-repair, and thus remains broken. My gifts are curses. I suppose by some inversion logic my curses are also gifts, but I don't much see how at the moment.
Although, the fact that I complain so little outside the Internets is a source of personal pride for me. I see people every day complaining about their lives; school, relationships, family, etc. I have something that can't be fixed with assertion and a positive attitude. Not that I'm saying no one else has it bad, of course. That would be terribly insensitive. But I'm what other people pretend to be: someone different. Someone with issues. And you don't hear me complaining. Do you notice the more superficial a problem is, the louder a person will talk about it?
So yes. I am still going on about this. I am still not over myself. I am still hurting. I don't say it because I'm full of myself, or because I want attention. I say it because it's true.

Once, my mother tells me, a bee was trapped in my grandfather's house. He spent a good long time chasing it about before catching it in a cup. He brought it to the window and, tenderly saying "There you go!" let it go... where it flew directly into a spider's web.
That doesn't have anything to do with this. I don't know why I brought it up.