Sarah vs. Brain

Just tryna stay afloat in the shit ocean of depression

[buzzfeed]

25 Times Tumblr Nailed What It’s Like To Suffer Through Marching Band

[sarahvsbrain-blog]

this pussy don’t flop like whut

maybe, like...depression is going to get better. maybe the lexapro will kick in in a few days and i'll start experiencing stuff, like more energy and fewer "what's the point" thoughts and self-loathing and binging, and...maybe start to get out there again, creating and sharing stuff, goofing off and enjoying being around humans, exploring and being kind and making jokes and writing and striving toward something? (is it toward or towards? but w/e language is just a tool we are not subservient to it as it's merely an extension of ourselves and whoah just typing that had me thinking in the tone of a snooty british professor LULZ.) it'd be gr8 if, like, the bombardment of shitty mean thoughts could stop..........not to oversimplify, but, like...that alone has the potential to let me fucking live again. i miss not seriously caring what anyone thought of me and trusting that i was smart and kind enough to navigate life, causing as little harm as i could.

stuff i'd like to try if i actually start to consistently give a shit again: - writing. like...stuff. like on a blog. (LIKE THIS ONE.) like strange, bright little stories, and strange, dark little stories, and poems and sketches and maybe plays and...not break out in hives and self-misery because i try to force it and end up coming out like a goose at karaoke. (that simile just smacked me in the face and i cannot not use it. i can hear all the internet claps from here thank u vrymuch) - ooh, and making comics and graphic novels. there's really something about graphic novels, man. what a way to experience a story. it's like a movie, but a self-guided one, so the pause you place on a panel is like, ur creative decision. the way you read influences the way you perceive the story, instead of it rolling in front of you, carefully timed. or maybe i'm just DUMB - ...........now i'm just thinking of all those graphic novels i high-ordered and jesus god i'm considering reading black hole for the second time in three days and that is saying a something - how does one human? because i think i'd like to try that again. it seems, like, a millennias-way away to a time where i could talk to someone and actually focus, without my body straightjacketed in fear and a million mosquithoughts divebombing my brain, telling me THIS PERSON HATES YOU SO MUCH OH MY GOD IT'S LIKE YOU KILLED THEIR GRANDMA. .......anyway. being a Normal Human Being again would be tight. - i'm bored and going back to watching the three broad city eps i have access to (which btw is a travesty and a shame and obama would not have allowed this). happy trails in dpland, bitchezzzzzzz

[poppyandmonty]

This slow-mo of Monty cleaning his face is the actual greatest.

[rafawriter]

[greenhouse-nurse]

Find your code name for the skeleton war.

1st: Birth month

January:Marrow

February:Femur

March:Phalanx

April:Vertebrae

May: Rib

June:Pelvis

July: Tooth

August: Fibula

September: Tibia

October: Sternum

November: Skull

December: Humerus

2nd: First letter of last name

A-E: Sucker

F-I: Nutz

J-M: Bong

N-Q: Slapper

R-U: Fucker

V-Y: Humper

Z: Douche

3rd: Birthday:

1-5: the fuckboi destroyer

6-10: master of the bone zone

11-15: player of xylobones

16-20: maker of dank memes

21-25: devourer of candy corn

26-31:crypt keeper of puns

Put your result in the tags

[wlwthirteens-archive-deactivate]

@manticoremanticoremanticore

[loll3]

Cozy Rainy Day ©Lolle  (Autumn is Coming // 2017) * media: ink on paper + photoshop

© All rights reserved // don’t repost without credits/don’t use without permission

[as-warm-as-choco]

Flying during a Solar Eclipse (X) 

[andantegrazioso-deactivated2018]

English garden | mccormickcharlie

[teaandcoffeelove]

[sarahvsbrain-blog]

Can’t cats just call me instead?

I'm a 24-year-old woman who can only remember one time when I've been catcalled. A year ago, as I pulled out of the metro parking lot, a slurring, drunk guy shouted, "DAMN girl, you're so SEXY." I remember the weird, conflicting excitement that comes with FINALLY having a chance to tell someone off with a ruthless clapback...and remembered how that excitement dwindled away as my brain instantly clicked off, leaving me to scramble for a sick burn. "...EW," I screamed out the window, probably too quietly for him to hear, and tore away, feeling like I'd just solved sexism.

Just kidding. People are, in general, either nice or indifferent to me; I NEVER get moments to tell off assholes, so when I miss an opportunity I regret it for literal years. But I was also feeling the weird itch I always get concerning catcalling; and, here in my car, pissed at him and myself, I also felt a little shiver of delight. FINALLY, I HAD BEEN CATCALLED.

Shit's different for those who grow up in "Someday a Swan mode," aka awkward/chubby/zitty/a bunch of other adjectives that basically sum up to dudes trying to get in your friends' pants instead of your own. As the biggest romantic in the entire history of the universe, it wasn't great, pals. I LIVED for that "falling in love at first sight" shit; I hoped one look would be enough for cute boys to wake up and realize I was the manic pixie dream girl they'd been looking for. (I mean, my Louis CK and Frida Kahlo pins aren't just on my backpack for the decoration, bruh--FULLY UNDERSTAND HOW ARTISTIC AND HILARIOUS I AM, DAMMIT.)

It's been a weird dynamic of wanting men to like me...and men not liking me. I've had my OkCupid triumphs here and there and now happily live with my SoulGoof, but for the most part, romance has been an unreachable state for an awkward chubby girl whose best talking points are about how Paul F. Tompkins makes me want to not die. So, it was kind of a thrill to be catcalled. Finally, a guy thinks I'm attractive--and he wasn't half-bad looking, either. JESUS, I'm trying to make this dude into a casanova--SEE WHAT MISOGYNY MAKES US DO??

So, it's a complicated feeling. FUCK. I hear horror stories from girls who've received actual, terrifying harassment, and I get sick to my stomach thinking about what shit men are. I KNOW catcalling is men trying to stay in power, trying to tell women that they're entitled to our bodies, that we're just flowers that exist to be looked at......and fucked. (Flowers are sex organs, right?? If only Google existed...) Catcalling is shitty and horrible and no one besides dudebro gets any satisfaction or good feelings from it--but for someone who maybe doesn't see herself in the greatest way, any validation from ANYONE has historically had me on my knees, begging for scraps. Arf.

Anyway. Screw men, screw misogyny, screw catcalling and all the complicated shit that comes with it. But also.........tell me I'm pretty????

[sarahvsbrain-blog]

Casually sitting here, trying to think of what to write, as Connor Franta (whoever that is) stares me down from the corner of the screen.

[sarahvsbrain-blog]

My mind is at war with itself.

Part of it knows it has depression. It knows that the reason I feel worthless, like a monster, like I’m not good enough is because I have a chronic illness that poisons my mind with doubt, contorting true words into ammunition to convince myself that I’m causing harm.

It tells me that depression is a real disease, that this is a real experience, even if there are voices in the world convinced that it’s complaints from those too lazy to pull themselves up and out of it. It keeps me going to therapy, writing, making art, learning how I can battle this Leech that will most likely be with me forever.

Another part of my brain tells me I’m wrong.

It tells me that part of my brain is just a fool trying to convince me that I’m good and decent, even though I have a long way to go before I’m worthy of anything. It tells me I’m a monster because I feel like one, and aren’t feelings a check for your morals, a guilt mechanism to keep me in line?

It keeps me from feeling the joy of connection, from putting my thoughts and ideas into the world, from believing that I deserve anything good—or the time of anyone good. It keeps me imprisoned in my apartment, afraid that my presence would be enough for mothers to cross the streets with their children, afraid of what might rub off on them.

It keeps me scared, and small, and confined. It keeps me quiet, and shy, and embarrassed, convinced that somehow I, a 23-year-old woman, am the one causing all the bad in the world and sucking away the joy. And it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting trying to battle it all myself, especially without letting myself feel the freedom of trying to express it through writing.

So, I’m starting now. I’m going to try to be courageous and battle my brain, because it’s a childhood bully keeping me from life. I don’t really know what this blog is going to be; I just know it’s going to be true, and hard, and hopeful. And I hope, by the end of it all, I’ll be convinced I’m good enough.