broken-from-memories

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when u move out you can go to a living room and use your phone there instead of being in your bedroom. it's allowed

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it is what it is

and it's autism

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as a girl i should be able to speak directly to the moon

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Oh ok so it turns out ive been borrowing grief from the future ! it turns out ive been preparing to lose the things i love rather than basking in the light of them while they last. Maybe i should nt do that

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*through gritted teeth* i will be patient with and kind to myself. i will be present with myself in the everyday. i will allow myself to be comforted by the world immediately available to me. i will not abandon myself when i feel scared. i will trust myself to know how to care for myself. i will let a better life slowly seep into mine so i still recognize it as my own.

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I like when the bus stops directly in front of you out of the line of waiting people and opens its doors. Chosen by the dragon

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My default setting is assuming people don’t want to talk to me

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actually I think you're lying about your lived experience and the proof I have is that i asked the warped and evil strawman version of you that I built to live inside my mind and it said you're full of shit and you never have good intentions ever

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Joy Sullivan, from "Long Division", Instructions for Traveling West

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you're not quite an emergency, is the thing. you're just having a bad spell. so what if you can't ever really catch your breath. can't ever really feel at ease. a buzzing, terrible feeling.

but emergencies are loud, and passionate, and hit the floor. you are not a lion or a hurricane, you just live in a pretty okay apartment and your back hurts. you wake up and drag yourself out of bed and banish what if i was dead thoughts like cobwebs. you pick out your clothes and try to stay active. you apply for jobs on the internet.

the anxiety is a wave, and the depression is a spiral. the other stuff keeps things "colorful." you mitigate your symptoms and take your meds when you have them and you try to hang out with friends. you go home and your head is full of riverwater. no matter how much you sleep, you still stay tired. you journal and practice gratitude and build from the bottom upwards. and still, the haunting.

you're not a 911 call or a shriek. you're just staring up at the ceiling and feeling the house settle into your bones. you feel you are playacting as a wolf when you're only a sheep. not quite dry and not quite drowning.

over and over, you slog through the creek.

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i worry so often - is the goodness in me a veneer. a rough white spackling of champagne toasts and friday evenings and too-quick jokes. i feel i am always building myself back up again, always trying to stack boxes on top of a rotted foundation. i mutate myself, hoop-jumping to some semblance of normalcy by journaling and eating right and "trying harder". try as i might: i know the form i began with, and that always feels more permanent. i was born as an anvil. i could never be the weightless sword.

the happiness and the joy is malleable, fragmented. but the despair? the despair remains. every time i drag my fingers down the tide of my soul, like black sand, i watch the sapphire grief glitter in the moonlight - somehow always-there, in despite.

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You guys do know you're supposed to reblog things, right

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Charles Bukowski, "assault," from What Matters Most is How Well You Walk through the Fire