victoria desmond @victoriadesmond - Tumblr Blog

Here is a compilation of every time I had a meltdown and wrote in my notes app about how terrible I felt, apologies in advance<3

I had no friends, except a quiet girl from New York City named Mizuki, and a hot, semi-vacuous boy from Los Angeles called Ashton, with whom I had nothing in common except sexual attraction.

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mental illness

trauma

faith

i write about mental illness, trauma and faith. published in faith, hope & fiction

thank u ily

When you’re bullied, you’re broken down psychologically. You’re taught to hate yourself; it gets ingrained in your bones that something is wrong with you.

You fundamentally begin to mistrust people and your place among them. When you’re teased relentlessly, and you have no idea how to protest without coming across even weaker and whinier, you become embarrassed of yourself.

Embarrassed to take up space, embarrassed about your fundamental essence and existence, whatever it is that made you you.

Unlikable.

When you’re bullied you develop a kind of bloodlust.

When I was fifteen I was intent on killing myself, and I looked forward with glee to the post-mortem guilt that would lay on the hearts of those boys and girls that tormented me every day.

because of her I didn’t fear risks or the edge— I craved them. I just wanted to live up to everything she epitomized and finally be considered cool enough to a pestering little voice in my head. I didn’t want to be pure, innocent, untouched— I wanted to be splattered and weathered with experience.

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I was small, and I hated that. I was the loser, the one who had to accept the degradation, the one who could never really escape. I had nowhere else to go. I would just sit and steam with feelings too big for me to handle up in my tree.

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My head is the strange place. It’s the cliché answer, the one no one wants to hear, but it’s my truth. I am the strange place. My brain gets stuck on random thoughts and won’t let them go, no matter what I do. I get caught in their cycle and start to lose faith in anything. Feeling like I can’t do anything, I’m speaking from a deep, dark hole of nothingness into which I stumbled.

My brain doesn’t work like other people’s. I misinterpret almost everything with a negative slant. I can’t trust my head. It leads me astray and badgers me incessantly. My head led me into a partial hospitalization program and away from my friends. It sends me into a panic at things other people wouldn’t even notice. Like some evolutionary quirk, my head has lost its self-preservation instincts and is trying to destroy me from within. I have to fight against it to see any semblance of joy.

I can’t blame anyone else: it’s me. It’s my chemistry, my neural pathways. And so, I dedicate all of my work and energy into fighting what I can’t be rid of: my own mind. I’m determined to find a way to wrangle it under my control and coax it into repose.

What would it be like to have a normal mind—one that wants me to succeed, not crumble and wither under a rock? I catch glimpses of a healthier mind when I take an anti-anxiety medication: what it feels like to be normal. It wears off in about three hours, and then the dread sets in, but at least I get a glimpse. A glimpse into the ease of existence.

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I always knew mental illness ran in my family, but I never expected myself to crash so hard.

Everything I knew about myself, everything I had been so proud of had come crashing down. Now I felt like a nothing-person. Floating around like a papier-mâché doll filled with crinkling glass and dull knives.

I had no idea what was inside me or what I was made of anymore. It was like everything that made me me had evaporated, leaving me with just a sticky, tired residue on the ground. I had been scorched from the inside out.

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my mom said depression is a brainstorm. but I disagreed.

I didn’t feel stormy – I felt stuck, frozen, exhausted, crushed. I felt like I was worth less than the worst person in the world.

my brain didn’t feel like a storm – it felt like it was crushed by the heaviest, most deadening sand, and I felt like I deserved it.

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i wish i could go through life without needing to speak

like a model, an enigma, someone who wisped in and out of rooms

i could focus all my energy on cultivating a persona

speaking with my scarves, coats, dresses, and gentle smiles

but it wouldn’t do, i was looked at strangely when words didn’t flow easily through teeth

i was the odd man out by way of silence

i had to have opinions, a certain garishness, to prove my humanity

to prove i’m not one of those girls

who sits still, quietly

and aren’t people enough

deviika

Margaret Atwood // Friedrich Nietzsche

masculinity is the same thing that hurt me and that will protect me

it splintered off bone and it’s what will piece me back together

it’s what tattered my envelope and what will hide me in the rain

because the wrong men hurt me, the wrong men cut me

but the right men heal me, the right men love me

the right men shelter me

like i never could

and i am safe

in their arms

letsbeapoemtogether

we can be in our own world escape within each others bodies just innocent, with gentle fear no tainted lust all of my past lovers don’t measure up and when i think of them i cringe but you and i will start something new something pure you will love me as the mess i am and i will find that all that i need is within you and we can float away on our own little island and every person who said it couldn’t be done will preen and pry desperate for a look at what we’d created and will it be healthy? well, it’ll be love

thenightlymirror

James Baldwin.

half-a-corpse-half-a-poet

Ada Limón interviewed by Lauren LeBlanc

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