This is me yelling myself into the world. @voidyellerthetwentyfifth - Tumblr Blog

Had a full on crying breakdown then went to make tea and toasted some pitta and had some hummus. Obviously began contemplating the beauty of bread, then walk into the hall and my roommate is having very loud sex. It was almost funny to realize that all of my flat mates are having some of the fundamental human experiences -bread, sex and fellowship (another roommate is out at her friends house).

College is weird but lovely.

a garden of milkweed blooms in my stomach. a sea of butterflies grows with each passing day.

the butterflies flap their wings.

blue and red and yellow and purple they fly into my brain, like monarchs migrating

they reign over my conscious mind, bleed into my unconscious.

the milkweed climbs my throat, filling it, making my breath shallow around it.

milkweed warms my face, turning my body to a greenhouse, turning my stomach.

butterflies fill my mouth and play among my words and I stumble through the conversation.

the butterflies have been my constant companion, the milkweed roots deep.

#anxiety

really miss my period being all regular so I’d know it was my period, not just regular suicidal thoughts. (for future me’s sake, it’s 1/3 and first day of period)

plus the whole increased appetite thing would have been good to know to prepare for again

fucking hate this. cramps are so bad and I want to get a painkiller or something, but it’s way to late to be allowed up even if I’m unable to sleep due to the pain

ok, so i’m suicidal (it’s probably just my period by whatever) and the only reason I haven’t killed myself yet is because of this thought process:

‘ok, so I’m a horrible person and I don’t deserve to be alive yadayada, but since I’m such a disgusting creature, I deserve to suffer right? And killing myself would end that, I wouldn’t be in pain anymore. So, really I need to continue being alive and forcing myself to do everything I’m supposed to because that would both maximize and prolong my suffering’

anyways, so now i’m out of bed and kinda wearing clothes even though I want to just lay down and wait to die.

me: ok, so I have a motor issue.

resident dumbass of my brain(rd): but we don’t have a car and we can’t drive. Is that the issue?

me: no. a motor issue as in the functionality of our hands is affected, we have poor motor control. nothing to do with cars.

rd: oh.

I’m so tired. I can’t remember the last time I slept for at least 5 hours uninterrupted. I have no homework or anything else today and I’m finally going to sleep!!!

I wish you could turn in all the things you wrote for assignments/essays. I have a few dozen A4 pages of content I can’t use and yet I have no essay. It’s fucking ridiculous that I’m trying this hard and yet it just isn’t working.

I don’t think I’ll be able to do this, but if I was able to turn something in as like a proof of effort that would be amazing.

#school #english assignments

It’s the juxtaposition of possibly lethal amounts of caffeine and pastel pink for me. -The one memey voice in my head describing my aesthetic

I’m a switch but the only thing I dom is my embroidery.

Actual reasons I’m still alive:

- I said to my friend see you next week (by accident tbh) and I refused to break that promise.

- I refuse to die a stranger. I’ve lived as a stranger in this body my entire life, and I won’t die as one.

- I had a craving for carbonara. If I killed myself, I couldn’t eat carbonara.

Sometimes I realize I have problems other people probably don’t.

Like today I was cleaning my room and found another almost finished s**c*de note. I know that I have a hidden folder somewhere with trauma confessions and s**c*de notes, so logically I started looking everywhere to find it, to put the note away.

I still haven’t found it, and now I have to worry about someone else having found it and possibly being institutionalized even though I can deal with it by myself.

and would you tell them?

“my sweet executioner know that you place my head upon the block and swing your axe so softly through my neck.

would you truly set me ablaze one final time, let the heat of hell consume me?

for we are sin incarnate.

would you lay your head next to mine on the block? let our heat build to consume us in the devils pleasure?”

“If you desired it, I would.”

#this was meant to be a love poem #religious trauma go brr #angst

I love having panic attacks followed by sobbing on a monday evening about school (even though I’m only back one day). Just sets the mood for education, am I right?

Don’t worry it wasn’t too loud though, I wouldn’t want to disturb anyone on a school night. After all, this is normal. Being terrified of your school and almost everyone in it is normal. Having suicidal thoughts because you have to go to school is normal, right?

The education system is so broken when it actively hurts students and causes them extreme distress to even think about.

Sometimes, I wonder who people would mourn, will mourn after I’m gone. Because no one knows the real me, so they wouldn’t be mourning a person, just a concept.

So, someone on Tiktok managed to release a bunch of repressed memories that were very graphic in nature.

Like they were talking about how reading explicit fanfic is bad for you at a young age and somehow my motherfucking brain went, oh yeah, do you remember the first time you had an explicit fantasy about the physical act of sex when you were 8.

And the fact that you’re probably hyper-sexual in some form given the fact that you still don’t know if the ‘wriggling’ started before you can remember because you have some of your earliest memories based around it.

And all of the times you thought about cannibalism as a kid. (in gory detail including feeding men a ‘stew of their own penises and their blood’. )

Or all of the dreams you had about being pregnant as an actual child. Because that bits been resurfacing too and you had a dream like that two nights ago and it made you feel so dirty and yet right because we had been used to those for years.

And you still try to tell everyone you have no trauma?

I’ve know that my body was, that I am a sexual object ever since I was 5 years old.

I’ve been made aware time and time again of how people will desire me. I have been catcalled and harassed in the streets since I was 11.

Maybe that’s why I clung to old clothes and shoes, hoping that if I wore them that I would look too young to desire.

Men twice my age ask for sexual things when I walk down the street. They whistle and their eyes follow me because they don’t register me as human. They wink and smirk. Some put their hands on my body, tug me onto their lap.

I first thought of myself in terms of fuckability when I was 9. Because men made comments. Because I would someday have to marry a man and have his children and be his property.

I have been defined as some man’s property since birth. First my father, then whoever decides they want to marry me.

I am not allowed to make my own decisions. My father has to decide appropriate clothes, how self confident I get to be. I will not be allowed to choose if I have children, or sex, that will be my husband’s job.

Men have ruined my life. I never wanted to be sexy or desirable, I was just weaker. I never wanted people to stare and touch me.

I just wanted to make friends, because I had none, because I was so alone.

Then a group of boys pinned me to the wall, told me to take off my clothes, all of them. One boy told me to take my glasses off too, so they could break them.

I was five then.

I have been objectified and reduced to a vessel for pleasure before I even knew about sex.

I’m 16 now. I still define myself by fuckability, desirability because my dad destroyed my self worth, because I was taught that I wasn’t worth anything if people don’t want me.

#sexualization #objectifying women

you know, sometimes I feel like i’m faking mental illness but then I remember that I don’t gain anything from it and that I genuinely do have an eating disorder, low self esteem/self worth, suicidal ideation, intrusive thoughts, high anxiety and depressive episodes if not depression, past trauma that I’m still unlocking, mood swings, sensory processing issues and more.

So yeah, I’m probably not faking.

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This is me yelling myself into the world.