fuzzznstuffingthatcomesout

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fight / flight / fawn

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probably needed a hug but instead distanced myself from everyone

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Fuck off. Fuck off, all of you, fuck off.

I hate you, you don't care. Admit it, you just don't care. So fuck off now.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

You can leave me, I don't care, fuck off and just leave me here.

Just fuck off. I don't need you. I don't.

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I want to hurt someone. I want to hit and bite and kick and take a crow bar and hit their torso until the cavity bursts and what mush remains of their organs spill out.

It feels so good. To picture it. To wreck things. It feels justified and right.

But I know it's not. I know I just want to throw a temper tantrum and then be treated like nothing happened.

It terrifies me. Where is the limit? Will I snap? I know I can't. I can't. I can't. If I do it's all over. I won't ever come back from this line if I step over.

I feel like such a monster, and it's because I am. I don't see the world or process it like humans. I'm not one of them.

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“A daughter hating her mother starts with a mother hating her daughter”

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You can't handle me. I am to much, to sick. I am not made to be loved. I know you think you can, I know you think you want to, but you haven't seen me yet. Not bad, not throwing stuff around, not screaming and crying, and being scared because it feels like everyone hates me and you are going to leave me. Not hurting everyone because I am just so hurt.

You can't handle me. You can't. I'm sorry, but noone can, you can't either.

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bpd is not knowing if you’re a good person or if you’re a bad person and you’re just gaslighting yourself to believe you’re a good person.

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text could never portray the scream i wish i could let out

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Do you remember what life was like before everything went downhill? Because I don't remember anything. It's like I've always felt bad mentally.

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BPD culture is being a sex-repulsed ace but still feeling the need to be a sex object because it feels like it might make people less likely to turn away from you

ok wow. didn't need to be called out today

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The Morning After I Killed Myself

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

By Meggie Royer

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“But when people write to me concerned that someone they love is suicidal, my advice is unflinching: There may be nothing you can really do, but whatever you’re doing to help, do more of it. Ask more questions. Drive your loved one to more doctors. Spend more nights watching him or her sob. — I regret every time I rolled my eyes because my sister was having another bad day. I’m ashamed of myself for it. No matter how much we know it’s not our fault, it doesn’t matter. In our hearts, we feel guilty.”

— Adam Cayton-Holland, “Advice I Never Wanted to Give”. The New York Times (18 August 2018).

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ouch... you hurt me

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I was 12 when a man I didn't know, my backyard neighbor, who was high on a cocktail of drugs demanded I open the front door, and screamed "when I get in there I'm going to rape and kill you!"

What about me was rape-5able to him? My child chest or child thighs? Maybe my bright graphic tee with a butterfly on it, or maybe my pink shorts? My short stature and baby fat? My big eyes?

I know it was just to feel powerful, I know, but I didn't even realize how weird of a threat that was against a 12 year old.

He was long gone when the police arrived.

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I forgot I had this vent blog. So much has happened.

Right now it feels like I'm never going to get married, it's too far away, too expensive. I'm from the lAnD oF tHe FrEe so yknow. But I also haven't found any engagement rings I like, nothing even close. I want a simple stamped wedding band, though.

My head tells me I'm never gonna get proposed to, it'll never be like the day dreams I've had since I was a little kid.

I also feel compelled to tell my girlfriend no, we can't, we have to save money (at least when it comes to the expense of myself). Don't get me a ring when we don't know if we'll be able to afford things in the next couple of months. Don't get me a ring ever, forget about it. What does it matter? Nothing is ever as I dreamt it up to be

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things i currently want:

bear hugs

tight hugs

long hugs

firm hugs

relaxing hugs

warm hugs

just a gosh darn hug, honestly

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Tell me when you get bored. A story about doses. [x]

I posted this on twitter and had a variety of aggressive ableism thrown my way.

This is a story about changing what I can in spite of what I cannot for the comfort of my loved ones. The thing that others find to be hurtful about me is that I like to spend time in silent solitude. People who love me often feel hurt that I tend to solve my own problems instead of leaning on them.

When we spend too much time together, people find my neutrality to be concerning, and it becomes too much for people to be unable to read me.

To show the people I love that I enjoy their company in ways they can understand, I pool my energy together to be high-energy, peppy, and social. Since this is not my natural state of being, it takes effort, which can only be expended in small doses. I amplify the things people like in me while filtering out everything they dislike about me when I am in their company.

I change my behaviors for those I love, but at the end of the day, I cannot change my neutral state of being, which is the thing that they want most out of me.

This is a story about me accommodating people in the best way I know how, not the other way around. I would truly appreciate it if people don't misconstrue this anecdote as me asking for dismissal of hurtful behavior when in reality, people find hurt in the fact that I simply exist, and I must change for them.