@i-want-a-break - Tumblr Blog

the thing they dont tell you about learning to "trust the process" is that you forget and relearn it every single time you make a new piece of art. unfortunately there is no cure either

tothechaos

a chart of what i mean for the visual learners in the audience

veitstanz

navigatorsnorth

Phenomenal spare wheel cover I walked past the other day

homunculus-argument

Autism is some monkey's paw sort of shit, you've got the power to give people the most devastating rip-your-scalp-off level insults that will haunt them for life, with a completely straight face, but the catch is that you don't do it on purpose and also have no idea that you're doing it at all before people get mad at you for no apparent reason again.

lickingandsuckingchristmascoins

byjove

how many people do you think use speech to text to write fanfiction like how many people in this world are sitting alone in their living room vividly reciting the nastiest sex scenes with perfect diction

#I would 100% do this ngl #for me it's easier to speak it than write it for some reason

redstonedust

nostalgia bait is much less effective when you have memory problems. "hey its that thing from your childhood, don't you love thing from your childhood?" i wouldnt know </3 i forgor.

redstonedust

gripping the shoulders of every youtuber ever. look up that unfamiliar word before you pronounce it. especially if it's not a word from your native language but honestly double check the ones that are native to you if you've only seen them in writing. you will thank yourself later.

capacity2

Anything that reminds me of anything makes me wanna throw up

ishimarukiyotaka

literally the worst way of ending a series is “all the survivors are happily straight married with tons and tons of babies!”

ishimarukiyotaka

people still getting mad at this post i made in 2014 so I will add here. in 2026. that the point of this post isn’t “happy endings bad” its when the story’s only way to imagine a happy ending is a heterosexual nuclear family for everyone.

dogpuppy

velvetcloak

👏👏👏

fox-bright

So--when I was in my mid-twenties and the Disaster Ex tried to make me kill myself, the local mental hospital didn't have any beds open in the usual ward for attempted suicides.

What they did have was a single spare bed in the small, comfortable, quiet, wildly expensive facility for girls with eating disorders.

They asked each of the young women currently living there if it was acceptable that I might occupy a bed in one of the rooms for a while, just the long weekend while I was waiting for a doctor's evaluation. I hadn't been violent, I had gone with the cops without putting up any fight at all, and I was still and I was small and all those things were sufficient for me to be deemed safe. So up they sent me, to somewhere high in Western Psych, above the smells and sounds of the denser-packed wards, above where the care workers were harried and frustrated, to a gentle space with seven or eight young women in it.

I was five foot three, and I weighed about 115 pounds. I was underweight for my frame, as a fair amount of that weight was martial arts muscle; I would probably have been ten pounds heavier if I were healthy, with the amount of activity I got.

I was at least two inches shorter than pretty much every other young woman there, six or seven inches shorter than one of them, and I had at least thirty pounds on several of them. The tallest was not allowed to walk, she had to sit in a wheelchair and be pushed around, because her condition was so advanced that the motion would undo what good her hard work had done.

And over the course of the four or five days I was there, multiple of them came up to me alone to quietly tell me that I had the *perfect* body, and they wished they could be as skinny as I was. That I needed to live, because I was beautiful, and if they were as beautiful as I was, they wouldn't need to be here.

Their eyes were on me all the time, in the hours that I wasn't sleeping. I spent a lot of time sleeping, and we took our meals separately (I not needing to be monitored while I ate, and not having my food weighed), but we spent a fair amount of time sitting around in the little shared living room space, talking about movies and magazines and books we'd loved, talking about our families. I didn't talk about my family; they didn't pry.

They were all so fucking nice.

And I could have broken any one of them over my narrow knee. They each thought they were bigger than I was.

Their brains lied to them, every time they looked at a mirror. Every time they looked down at their own thighs. What they saw was not what I could see. They had bright, beautiful eyes in dark hollows, and I could count their vertebrae, could see their ribs winging when they breathed, could see the motion of every tendon on the backs of their hands.

They weren't celebrities. They weren't being paid to have particular bodies, nor were they deep in the toxic sea of having strangers take photos of them to sell to gossip rags if they stepped out of doors in old jeans. They had families and loved ones who were doing everything that they could to protect them, to uplift them and help them be healthy. They were just everyday people--a nurse, a couple of students, a couple of recent college grads, a young woman who had decided it was time to really get help because she wanted to be a mother--and still they'd been so injured by the neverending fucking deluge of body-image bullshit that they were dying of it.

That was in 2009. Things are worse now. I think about them still. I hope that they're all right.

likorys-shimenawa

And in case some people aren't aware: anorexia is deadly. There is a point at which your body looses the ability to digest food and you are no longer capable of improving.