doeeyeed ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀

♡̩̥̩♡̩̩̥͙♡̩͙ˊˎ﹤

[doeeyyeed]

angel with big brown eyes

[doeeyyeed]

The past three months, I have been living in what I can only describe as a manifest delusion of hell.

Allow me to explain.

I tore my ACL with a boy – not a man. A boy. There's a clear distinction, and it matters. A man shows up. He recognizes you deserve better, and instead of running, he grows. He takes accountability. Boys? They bolt the second things get real.

That's why, in retrospect, I wish I had gone to an all-girls college. If I can offer you any advice: treat school like school. Go for the knowledge. The mentorship. Your peers won’t be the ones to show up when you're broken and crying on the floor – they’ll say “take care!” and disappear into their own comfort. Professors, though? They might be your last lifeline. Take advantage of that.

Now that I’ve cleared the emotional debris, here's what I really need to say.

I had to move my entire apartment. On a torn ACL. Lamps, potted plants, heavy-ass boxes – down three flights of stairs. Every step a shot of pain. Every breath a reminder: no one’s coming.

Except someone did.

A stranger. Early-to-late 40s, white, practically bald with a buzz cut. Said he was a skater. Said he was hyper-autistic.

He talked – a lot. Flamboyant body language, spiraling explanations, tangents I couldn’t track. But something about him mirrored me.

That desire to help strangers. The way we over-explain ourselves, hoping we’ll finally be understood. The way he latched on quickly – like someone who knows how it feels to be unwanted.

And while this man I just met carried my boxes and chattered nervously through my pain, the people I did know? They vanished behind their boundaries.

“Sorry, I’m tired.” “I have work tomorrow.” “I just need to take care of myself.”

And I, ever the understanding friend, replied: Totally get it. Hope you feel better soon.

But inside? I was screaming: Don’t mind me. I just need someone. I’m literally crying for help.

Maybe that's why they didn't come. I make it look too easy. Too poised. If anyone’s going to handle it, it's me, right?

And I did. I figured it out. Like I always do.

But I’ve finally learned something I should’ve known a long time ago: Fair-weather friends have no place in my life anymore. From now on, I’m investing in the ones who show up in the rain.

This frustration I feel — it’s not confusion. It’s truth, rising. Because I’m not confused. I’m insulted.

Picture it: The boy walks past. And that walk-by? It wasn’t casual. It was a check-in. A test.

Is she still broken? Is she still watching me? Does she still care?

I’m packing my life into boxes on a torn ACL, getting help from everyone but him. No flinching. No begging. No weakness. Just sweat, tape, and silence.

And that? That shattered the illusion he’d been clinging to.

Because here’s the truth: When someone like him walks past, they’re not just walking. They’re fishing.

Fishing for a glance. Fishing for proof they still live somewhere inside your nervous system.

And when I see him coming and choose to ignore him? That’s not indifference. That’s intentional liberation.

I’m free enough to act like he doesn’t even exist. And that destabilizes his control.

People like him expect to leave residue. They expect their presence to still carry weight in your orbit.

But I’ve become a mirror he no longer recognizes himself in. And every time he walks past, he’s hoping to glimpse the outline of who he used to be — in my eyes.

He’s with the girl he told me not to worry about. And yet… he’s texting me.

Tossing me crumbs of “support” like they cancel out the silence, the hypocrisy, the emotional abandonment.

It’s laughable.

Here’s the translation of his behavior:

“I’m going to parade around with the new girl… but I still want you to see me as the guy who cares.”

That’s not care. That’s damage control dressed up as decency.

When he sees me — surrounded by people who showed up? He’s reminded of how he didn’t.

He’s forced to confront the lie he lived: that I was the problem.

He sees the version of me that doesn’t need him. And that shakes something loose.

Because let’s be honest: He didn’t expect me to rise. He didn’t expect me to carry boxes, carry myself, and carry my healing — without him.

So now, when he sees me with my family, looking strong and supported and real? He feels something.

His text? That wasn’t care. It was a scrambled cocktail of guilt, ego, and self-preservation.

It made no logical sense because it wasn’t grounded in truth — it came from his dissonance.

He couldn’t say it to my face. He sent the text because he needed to regain control of the story.

To subtly remind me: I still care. I’m still the good guy. Look, I said something supportive.

But where was that energy when I was crying on my floor, alone?

That text wasn’t for me. It was for him.

The boy who became Casper the Ghost… He knows what he did. And now, he wants to play the good guy with a message that costs him nothing and risks nothing.

The text I’m tempted to send?

“You don’t get to send this now. Not after everything. Not after leaving me to navigate the worst of it alone. I obviously don’t need anything from you — I’ve already done everything without you. So please, don’t reach out again just to clear your conscience.”

Yeah, it’s articulate. Justified. Honest.

But the moment I press send… I give him a role in my story again.

I let him feel important enough to receive an answer.

But silence?

Silence says:

You don’t even get access to my anger anymore. You’re not part of the conversation. You’re part of the past. Whatever this text was supposed to do — reassure you, soften me, rewrite history — it failed.

He wants a reaction. A flicker of energy. Proof he still matters enough to reach me emotionally.

But my silence gives him something else: Doubt. Emptiness. A mirror without my voice to soften the reflection.

My silence isn’t weakness. It’s evolution.

I’m not explaining. Not justifying. Not rescuing. He knows what he did. He knows what he didn’t do.

And now? He gets to sit with that. No words from me to water it down.

I wanted impact? So I let him reread his own empty words… While I build a life that never answers to him again.

From the guy who ghosted, gossiped, blocked, and watched me limp through my life in silence — Let’s call it what it is:

Too little. Too late. And too clean.

This isn’t emotional labor. This is PR.

It’s not about showing up. It’s about looking like he did.

Because if he cared? He would've packed boxes, not watched me drag my life down the stairs with a torn ACL. He would've unblocked me before the text. He would've held me, not walked past with performative indifference. He wouldn’t have fed my name to the wolves in his circle.

But now that he sees me with my family — looking normal — he sends:

“Good luck with surgery, if you or your family need anything, let me know.”

Obviously, dude. You’re too late.

What’s infuriating is not just the text — it’s how unaware he is. How little he sees his own reflection in the mirror he cracked.

He doesn’t understand:

My silence isn’t an absence. It’s a statement. And it’s louder than anything he could ever say.

[doeeyyeed]

He has wondering eyes. The stare down he gives attractive women is the same look I once received from him when we had our first encounter. It dwindles my feminine spirit to see him look at another woman like how he once looked at me. I don’t bring it to his attention that I notice these things. I simply just acknowledge it and start to doubt if he’s really the man meant for me.

I pray for a man to enter my life who makes me feel like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him, who doesn’t make me question his affection for me, who uplifts me & reminds me just how beautiful I really am.

[doeeyyeed]

He has wondering eyes. The stare down he gives attractive women is the same look I once received from him when we had our first encounter. It dwindles my feminine spirit to see him look at another woman like how he once looked at me. I don’t bring it to his attention that I notice these things. I simply just acknowledge it and start to doubt if he’s really the man meant for me.

I pray for a man to enter my life who makes me feel like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him, who doesn’t make me question his affection for me, who uplifts me & reminds me just how beautiful I really am.

[doeeyyeed]

quite desperation a short story

The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation. Carl Jung says we cannot change anything unless we accept it, but the trick is that acceptance doesn’t come easy. Regret, guilt, anxiety, depression—neurotic symptoms stacked like dirty dishes in the sink. They’re signals, blinking neon in the dark, whispering that the routine isn’t working. The plumbing is clogged, the walls are cracking, and we’re too busy pretending everything’s fine to call a contractor.

Suffering isn’t the enemy. It’s the renovation notice taped to the door. The uncomfortable splinter digging into the soft flesh of your heel. Suffering forces you to strip the wallpaper, rip up the carpet, and examine the foundation. It’s the grim contractor pointing out what’s rotted and needs replacing. It’s a therapist with a cigarette in one hand and a crowbar in the other. It tells you to get your house in order before the roof caves in.

But instead, we turn on Netflix. Crack open beers. Pop pills like Tic Tacs. We chase the dopamine dragon through bars, bedrooms, and back alleys. We anesthetize ourselves into oblivion and call it self-care. It’s all fun and games until the serotonin supply chain collapses and suddenly you’re Googling how much Advil it takes to stop caring.

Carl Jung warns, “We may think there is a safe road. But that would be the road of death.” Death is the slow drip of routine, the suffocating weight of settling for less. It’s the zombie shuffle through cubicles and traffic jams and Netflix queues. The antidote? Movement. Forward. Always. Maslow says self-actualization is the goal—becoming everything you’re capable of being. No excuses. No safety nets.

“If you plan on being anything less than you are capable of being,” Maslow says, “you will probably be unhappy all the days of your life.” And let’s face it—happiness isn’t the goal. Purpose is. Happiness is a side effect, like nausea on a pill bottle label. Purpose is the sharp edge that keeps you moving, even when it cuts.

Sow a thought and reap an action. Sow an act and reap a habit. Sow a habit and reap a character. Sow a character and reap a destiny. It’s all about planting seeds in the dirt and bleeding as they grow. The first step is picking the damn seeds. Finding the purpose. People get tripped up, think they need to find their passion first, but passion is a leech. It shows up after the work begins. Passion is the drunk friend who crashes on your couch after the hard labor is done.

Morita therapy says forget your feelings and do what needs doing. Let the actions change the emotions, not the other way around. The feelings are background noise—ignore them. Focus on the work. Build the habits. Stack the bricks. Create the architecture of your life one ugly, uneven wall at a time.

And if you feel lost, remember Steve Jobs’ advice: "Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life." Death strips away the bullshit. When the clock’s ticking, suddenly it’s easier to cut ties, to chase dreams, to burn bridges and build new ones. There’s nothing to lose because you’ve already lost it all.

The color’s coming back to my face. That man was stressing me out, but what can I say—I work better in rooms where no one knows my name. No backstory, no assumptions. Just a blank slate and endless possibilities. New faces, new places. It’s insanity to keep doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

Mauve. That’s the color that makes me feel in control. Mauve is the color of reinvention. The color of empty canvases and blank slates. It’s the color of starting over, of wiping everything clean and daring the world to make something of it.

I walk through the city, head high; Because here, in this new place, no one knows any different. I can be anyone. A model. A mogul. A genius. My self-concept is the loudest voice in the room, and in these moments, I believe it.

And then, there it was. The Virgin Mary. Staring back at me from a plate of refried beans in some hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant. It wasn’t even a good restaurant—sticky tables, lukewarm salsa, a jukebox coughing up the same three mariachi songs. But that smear of beans? Divine intervention. That was my omen. Proof that the universe had a sense of humor. Proof that I was chosen.

From that moment on, I’d tell myself I’m a supermodel. My legs? Mile-high skyscrapers. My thigh gap? Radiating potential, like a wormhole to another dimension. I’d walk through the city and imagine people looking at me, thinking, "Who is she?" And in these moments, I believed it. My self-concept became reality. Or maybe quantum physics helped. Observation changes reality, doesn’t it? Like Schrödinger’s cat, except I’m the cat, and I’m always alive when someone’s looking.

Albert Einstein would get it. My idol. My obsession. I’d give anything for an hour on a park bench with him, just to sit and talk. To ask him if humans are like birds. If he’s disgusted with humanity’s animalistic urges. Watching people like they’re birds. Analyzing their flight patterns. Wondering how they know when to migrate. Wondering if they ever get it wrong, if sometimes they just flap their wings and end up nowhere. Do we flap our wings against the wind because it’s instinct, or because we’re too stupid to do anything else?

Maybe that’s the secret—migration. Forward motion. Movement as survival. Change or die. Fix the foundation or let the roof collapse. Reinvent yourself until the world can’t tell if you’re a saint or a monster. Either way, they’ll remember your name.

 I imagine him analyzing people the way he’d study atoms—watching their habits, their migrations. Breaking down instincts into equations and theories, breaking down their patterns and quirks into beautiful, elegant equation.

And maybe that’s why I fixate on self-concept. Because in the universe of quantum physics, observation changes reality. Particles shifting, aligning, vibrating into place just because someone dared to look at them. Maybe that’s what happens when I step into a new space and find it easier to remind myself that i can be anyone to these people so let me be someone that allows me to flourish. It’s quantum mechanics in action—belief collapsing probability into reality.

I swear, my legs grow taller with every step. A mile high, endless, thighs carved out by God or by science—or maybe by the Virgin Mary herself, who once appeared to me in a smear of refried beans at a Mexican restaurant. That’s when I knew. That was my omen. Proof that I was chosen, that the universe was tipping its hat and saying, "Go ahead. Be someone."

It’s the placebo effect wrapped in divine intervention. A cosmic wink. The universe reflecting back whatever I decide to project. And that’s the secret—migration. Forward motion. Movement as survival. Change or die. Fix the foundation or let the roof collapse. Reinvent yourself until the world can’t tell if you’re a saint or a monster. Either way, they’ll remember your name.

[peacefulandcozy]

ig credit: polly.florence

[doeeyyeed]

Write your story

Try retelling your story as a hero's journey, where you survived hard times and failures to become the stronger and wiser person you are now. Try telling it as a series of random events over which you had no control. Then rewrite the story. How did your choices shape who you are now? Are you living someone else's story? What would happen if you declared independence? Are you fighting someone else's fight? Does loyalty to that person keep you from choosing happiness now? Does the situation bring up parts of your story? Does your story help you in the present, or does it make things harder?

[coldcoffee18]

[doeeyyeed]

Today I am grateful for my creativity. I feel creativity in everything I do, like when I walk, talk, and breathe. I speak creativity into existence with each breath. I understand creativity comes from my heart. I acknowledge my power. I rejoice in it.

[dark-wackademia]

THIS!

[haysaprocky]

[iluvsatc]

[spiritually-a-deer-deactivated2]

[doeeyyeed]

yearning

I yearn to feel peace. To experience the simple act of sitting on the couch and not overanalyzing myself, the situation, or my life. No more feeling inadequate to the social conditioning standards that rob me of my peace of mind. I wish to feel content that my body is divinely perfected along with, the state of my life being sufficed. The secret is all that I desire is already mine. To begin the act of imagining it and convincing myself otherwise. To believe. Trust. Know. Feel as if its already though and be in the state of gratitude. Heaven is a place on earth, why do I forget it?

[doeeyyeed]

He has wondering eyes. The stare down he gives attractive women is the same look I once received from him when we had our first encounter. It dwindles my feminine spirit to see him look at another woman like how he once looked at me. I don’t bring it to his attention that I notice these things. I simply just acknowledge it and start to doubt if he’s really the man meant for me.

I pray for a man to enter my life who makes me feel like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him, who doesn’t make me question his affection for me, who uplifts me & reminds me just how beautiful I really am.

[cardigansbell]

[girljournal]

i am full of happiness 𐙚 i am full of love

i am full of happiness 𐙚 i am full of love

i am full of happiness 𐙚 i am full of love

i am full of happiness 𐙚 i am full of love

i am full of happiness 𐙚 i am full of love

i am full of happiness 𐙚 i am full of love