In Love With The World @raddiantt - Tumblr Blog

I don’t know what I miss more. The memories of the delusions. I was never truly there. Or was I? I can’t remember. Isn’t every moment one feels true? In this moment know, I am ever present. Ever aware of all that I am and all that I was. But what was I, truly? This is the question that haunts my mind. Did I ever truly burn as bright as my memories recall? Did I ever truly have it all? Or did I just have more than I do now. Even by that logic, I was better off then. That. That is the lie I try to convince myself of. That my life before was amazing. That I had friends. A boyfriend. Joy and freedom. And I did. But I wasn’t happy. And I can’t figure why. Did I always know I was an imposter? Always without, never within. How was I able to fly by under the radar for so long, people never realizing the void within. It baffles me. The one clear answer is that no one was truly paying attention. Everyone was just as engulfed with themselves as I.

10.9.21

It’s moments like this that I fall into the oblivion. Moments when I realize what I lost, I never truly had. It was the faint grasp of delusions that clouded my reality. If only I had known sooner, I would’ve held on tighter, hugged a little longer. Basked in the warmth of the nothingness that engulfed me.

artofjoohei

Autumn feels

lets-catch-some-waves

mollyhengcheang

mienar

waiting for the stars

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mienar

that horror movie got me good

softyin

mentally ill culture is questioning whether something is a Symptom, a Side Effect, or Just You™

juaok

sertraline (2018)

when i started uni i began drinking a lot more than i ever had before and this, combined with my deteriorating mental health, ended up sending me into a series of spiraling breakdowns whenever i got drunk. after new year’s eve, one of the worst nights of my life, i decided it was finally time for me to try antidepressants. i’d always been scared away from them by inaccurate information that people throw around but i was at the end of my tether.

for the first time since i entered my teens i feel somewhat stable. i’m not a complete slave to insane, nonsensical mood swings. i can socialise with my friends without having an episode. living isn’t such a chore, i’m not suicidal every day. medication isn’t the be all and end all, i have a team of people supporting me and i’m still in counselling, but antidepressants are working better for me than i ever expected they would.

if you have a physical illness there is no stigma around taking medication to help you live with your symptoms, there should be no judgement around taking antidepressants.

existential-celestial

“When Van Gogh was a young man in his early twenties, he was in London studying to be a clergyman. He had no thought of being an artist at all. he sat in his cheap little room writing a letter to his younger brother in Holland, whom he loved very much. He looked out his window at a watery twilight, a thin lamppost, a star, and he said in his letter something like this: “it is so beautiful I must show you how it looks.” And then on his cheap ruled note paper, he made the most beautiful, tender, little drawing of it. When I read this letter of Van Gogh’s it comforted me very much and seemed to throw a clear light on the whole road of Art. Before, I thought that to produce a work of painting or literature, you scowled and thought long and ponderously and weighed everything solemnly and learned everything that all artists had ever done aforetime, and what their influences and schools were, and you were extremely careful about *design* and *balance* and getting *interesting planes* into your painting, and avoided, with the most astringent severity, showing the faintest *academical* tendency, and were strictly modern. And so on and so on. But the moment I read Van Gogh’s letter I knew what art was, and the creative impulse. It is a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and in a direct, simple, passionate and true way, you try to show this beauty in things to others, by drawing it. And Van Gogh’s little drawing on the cheap note paper was a work of art because he loved the sky and the frail lamppost against it so seriously that he made the drawing with the most exquisite conscientiousness and care.”

— Brenda Ueland, from “If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit”