Journal

[spiral-insanity]

i think i’m on the side with the greener grass. life’s just too black and white for me to even care.

[spiral-insanity]

I was babysitting a six year old today.

We were putting together a Lego spaceship, and he was giggling and kept saying, “I don’t care”. I asked him what he didn’t care about. After avoiding the question numerous times, he stopped laughing and said very quietly, “I don’t care about myself.” This definitely caught me by surprise. 

“Buddy, why don’t you care about yourself?”

“I just don’t, very much. I don’t do anything right.”

“Hey, that’s not true. What makes you feel that way?”

“It is true, it is very true. I always get in trouble at school.”

“Well why do you get in trouble? Do you do anything bad?”

“No, well, I try to be nice. The teacher just gets mad at me because I forget fast. It makes me not like myself, maybe even hate myself. Sometimes I don’t even know if I want to be alive.”

I asked him if he had talked to anyone about this; his teacher, his dad, his other babysitters. He told me he hadn’t.

“I don’t want to upset my dad. He’d get upset because I’m upset.”

“Don’t you want to be happy?”

He nodded.

“I think your dad wants you to be happy, too. If you talk to him about it, you can both be happy.”

“I just want to be me, a different me, to be gooder.”

I told him that it wasn’t his fault that he forgets things, and I encouraged him to talk to his dad about it so he could get some more help in school. Apparently, when he tries to ask questions, his teacher tells him to go play. I told him that I could help him if he ever asked me, and that I was his support. He said he didn’t want to tell his dad because he was afraid that he’d laugh. I assured him that his dad would want to know in order to help him as much as possible. Then, knowing it wasn’t changing his mind, I asked him if he was okay if I talked to his dad about it after he went to bed. He agreed. I followed up on the part about him saying he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be alive, and he promised me that he didn’t want to die (”I would never want to die”). “I just wish I had been born a different me.”

“Do you have any other secret that you think someone should know?”

“Well it’s not much of a secret, I try to tell people in my class but they don’t believe me.”

“What is it?”

“One hundred isn’t that big of a number, after all.”

[quietvoiced]

[mypenleaksiridescence]

Love is terrifying. It’s like music, I think. You find a song that becomes your favorite, and then you listen to it on repeat until you eventually get bored of it. Your music is on shuffle, and every time that one song rolls around you always skip it. But you can never bare to delete it. Is that what it’s like when love dies?

Just A Song To Skip… (via mypenleaksiridescence)

[moonlittmusings]

Nobody tells you how much mental illness fucks with your perception of time. How you can’t place memories right. How you can’t distinguish if something happened a month ago or a year ago. How you lose entire chunks. Weeks, months of memories just get brushed away somewhere. What you do remember just ebbs and flows together. You’re never really in the moment so you can’t ever really hang onto it.

[achingchest]

you finally did it, you know? you finally let someone in, after years of saying no. person after person, avoiding glances and wrists touching, trading chances for hours alone with your thoughts because you’re so anxious, you run from human connection, from hugs, from affection.

but there he is and you think this may work and you give in and for a while, you’re commending yourself for it. like yeah, the anxiety’s strong but i am stronger. and it’s beautiful, the way i am collapsing into his chest after a long day, the way i am letting him comfort me, the way i’ve never done this before. and things feel safe here, so safe finally, that you let him be your everything.

and this is the point in the story where he feels pressured. you’re always crying - god, it’s not anxiety anymore, but it’s always something. but really it is anxiety in hiding because you know you’re letting him hold you back and you can’t leave and he thinks he can’t give you what you need all by himself so he doesn’t give you anything. but at least you have him. your safe space. your everything.

you learn how to live comfortably. you forget that there’s nothing good about living inside of a box. but you’re young and you don’t know what you’re doing and you’re living in your head and it’s destroying everything and you don’t even know that the house around you is burning because this is your safe space. your home away from the growing.

and all you do now is sit on your boyfriend’s couch. you don’t even have sex anymore, despite the fact that you always fall asleep in his bed, despite your parents’ frantic efforts to keep you grounded. they ask you why you never go on dates but they don’t understand that it’s mostly your fault, that dating stresses you out, that dates cause more anxiety than enjoyment, that you’re so afraid of everything and you don’t know how to stop it.

and you never initiate sex because you think you aren’t good enough because of his sexual history but he just thinks you don’t think he’s sexy and this is where the water really gets murky. you’re grasping for something familiar and the only thing you find is his hand. you know this is unhealthy but you seep further into him. he’s grasping for something familiar and all he can feel is her skin. he thinks you don’t want him anymore. maybe he pretends she’s you but you’ll never understand. you clutch your knees in your hands on your porch step and fall asleep crying. he falls asleep in her bed.

that’s how you get through this - two different ways, two different pains. i know why you did it now. i get it. insecurity can make you do unthinkable things. but above anything else, i can’t stop thinking about how sad it is that this generation is fueled by anxiety.

look. these are the things nobody talks about. when your boyfriend takes 45 minutes to cum but the one-night stand takes 5. how do you speak up about that without making him insecure? look. you’re sexting him but you start crying in the middle of it and you don’t know how to end the conversation so you just stop replying without him knowing.

and at this point, you feel like you’re always nursing everybody elses’ insecurities. you spend so much time worrying about if your ex-boyfriend who cheated on you is satisfied because you don’t want him to be as insecure as you’ve been because of him. and your friends tell you to leave and you do but you’re never too far, because you know how anxiety feels. and it feels like dying. it feels like dying. and you don’t want anybody else to feel this way. it hurts. i’m sorry.

[wnq-writers]

May you fall in love with someone, who never gets tired of saving you from your own chaos.

thetypewriterdaily (via wnq-writers)

[schuylerpeck]

In the cool dark of summer nights, I try to forget every mistake I’ve made that starts with your name. The fan whirls by the window, the dog lies in a sleepy shape on the floor, and I am trying to forgive myself for loving you.   What dumb mistakes we make for people we believe would do the same– how quickly the soft skin of love can make your stomach churn.

Schuyler Peck, A Poem In Which We Both Try to Be Better (via schuylerpeck)

[spiral-insanity]

I’m not normal. I always tell you that you shouldn’t love me, and that bothers you, and I’m sorry. But I’m the girl that sleeps at 8PM one night, then 3AM the next. I drink my coffee at night, and I always have to have a cold drink with it because I count it as more of a luxury than a fluid. I can’t catch a ball to save my life but I have these weeks where all I’ll do is go outside and throw a ball up and try to catch it on the way down. I can walk in a straight line no matter how many shots I’ve had, yet I lack any common coordination even so. I hate the word hate, yet I use it daily (never for a specific person). I consider myself a writer, yet I only write when it’s midnight and I’ve lost sight of who I am. I love to read but I have weeks where I don’t have the patience to pick up a book. My heart beats at abnormal rates, but never drastically enough for worries. There are days when I’m optimistic and pessimistic all at the same time and I still don’t understand the balance of that imbalance. I didn’t know my left from my right until I was ten, but I knew what sex was by age seven. I have an “I don’t care what people think of me” mindset, but my life is constructed on the foundation that is social influence. Half the time I want to punch you, but I want to kiss it better even before I do it. I see into other people’s emotions and interpret them and morph them into something that fits my life. I’m fucked up. I’m imperfect and I’m not normal. Don’t try to tell me that nobody’s perfect nor normal. No matter how true that statement is proven, nobody is ever this far off from it, and there’s nothing you can say that’s gonna make that any different. I am different in the worst way possible. I can speak these words. I can tell you every negative trait of me, unintentionally avoiding any positive aspect I’ve ever seen in myself. I can tell you about me. I can go on and on, except I don’t know who I am, and this simply further supports my claims.

I’m imperfect in a way that no one else is (via thedeaddozen)

[backshelfpoet]

This is the rape joke: My best friend was four years old the first time his father came into his room at midnight and tore out his throat. He still has days when I cannot hold him because the memory of a bleeding trachea haunts his doorway. He has not been home for the holidays in many years, but – even now – hands are seen as weapons. This is the rape joke: I have been told by more than twenty people that they have been raped. To all of them, I asked where the rapist was. From none of them, I heard ‘jail.’ This is the rape joke: Once my brother told me that I was so ugly, I would be a virgin forever. Unless someone raped me. But even they wouldn’t come back for seconds. This is the rape joke: I believed him. This is the rape joke: I now look at every woman on the street and wonder if the space between her legs is a crime scene, surrounded by ripped caution tape. The statistics tell me that this is so common that I will never be in a room that does not contain a survivor. Not even if I am in that room alone. This is the rape joke: I was thirteen years old, and he was supposed to be just a friend. This is the rape joke: When his older brother came home, the boy pulled away. He wiped the tears from my face and said ‘we should do this again some time.’ This is the rape joke: When I finally told my parents, they asked what I had been wearing. This is the rape joke: I had been wearing my innocence. My trust. I had worn the love I held for humanity and expected to be treated well. I had never been taught that I would be that girl, the one who keeps a mine of secrets between her legs – that girl was the slut. I wasn’t supposed to be breakable. What had I been wearing? I wore the rape joke, then I became it.

This is the Rape Joke | d.a.s

After Lora Mathis’s poem “the Rape Joke”

(via itcuddles)

[inkskinned]

if you were one of the unnoticed ones, i am writing this for you. i am writing this because you were too good at smiling and laughing and never letting the truth  get loose. i am writing this because you kept your grades at a point where  nobody questioned you, even  when you sat awake at night wondering why you were terrifically empty inside. i am writing it for the panic attacks nobody saw, for the eating disorder you weren’t ‘thin enough’ for. i am writing it for the scars that stayed covered, the nights of ache that went unspoken. i am writing it for the mess in your room that your mom yelled about when really  it was a symbol of how apathetic you’d become. i’m writing it for the showers you skipped and the classes where you didn’t come. the illnesses that you allowed into your system, the weary  tiredness that everyone else challenged you with: your eight hours were bliss, you should feel perfect. i am writing it for the messages you  backed down from, the cries for help that went unanswered, the jokes you made that were the truth but said with a grin. i am writing it for the moment when you were giving advice that someone would ask, “how do you know all this?” i am writing it for the plates you left unwashed, the homework that went unfinished, for the pens you snapped with no other reason than to feel the release of breaking something. i am writing it for the nights  you stayed awake and  walked somebody else to shore even while nobody saw you  didn’t know how  to swim anymore. i see you. i see you hurting.  you deserve help. you deserve to feel good. you deserve to feel better. it’s okay to show it sometimes. it’s okay to bend. it’s okay. you’re not weak for your suffering. i believe in you. you’ve already shouldered so much. let the burden down.  it’s not giving up.

my invisible ones // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

[on-poetry]

peeling the skin from your lips won’t get rid of his kiss, his astronomy. he’s turning into gravity and you’re still anchored to the sky.

[pearrldusst]

“I’ll say it then,” I shouted. “You hurt me. And you knew that. And instead of saying sorry or talking to me, it was easier to talk trash behind my back and make stupid excuses for your actions by blaming me. I was emotional, I was in a vulnerable position, I wrote what I was feeling at the moment. But that doesn’t mean that you can just assume that I wasn’t emotional and believe that I meant everything I said at the moment. And the worst thing is that, after hearing what you said to others, I did mean everything I said. And you can’t change that. Because you left when I wanted you there. And if that’s the way you want to treat me, I can only do you the favor of doing the same. Bye, Riley.” I turned my back to his gaping mouth, and ran towards the stoplight, hoping that the wind was strong enough the push the tears away. We were the last ones there so no one else saw. It was a secret. Like it had always been.

messages // Krystal (via exposed–soul)

[musingsbymoonlight]

I am stronger than this. My tears are only here to wash away the pain.

Stronger Than This// Cosmic  (via cosmicunicornbaby)

[weightoflliving-blog]

Keep your smile, it doesn’t lit the world, no burden should be as heavy, but it lights your heart (and maybe that’s all that matters) Keep fighting, the world isn’t a battlefield, how horrible would that be, but it can be just as harmful (and maybe it shouldn’t be) Keep living, even if every day, every second feels like death let me tell you it’s worth it down the line
(and maybe I’m selfish)

for Chan #12 (via weightoflliving)