1dkl0l - Tumblr blog

[1dkl0l]

no one talks about how being heartbroken by your parents feels worse than being heartbroken by any other lover or friend. it’s the constant forgiveness and wishing they were different that leads to a cycle of betrayal and heartbreak that hurts me. i feel broken

[1dkl0l]

I’m tired of being misunderstood by people because I don’t know how to express myself

[1dkl0l]

Would rather be taken out back and shot execution style than express an ounce of genuine vulnerability

[1dkl0l]

Who up feeling like Virginia woolfs last letter to her husband 🤣🤣🤣

[1dkl0l]

So does anyone actually have real friends as an adult or is everyone just faking it

[1dkl0l]

So tired of “girls this“ “girls that” “girls when” let me be a beast

[1dkl0l]

If I could go back in time I would give all the prostitutes in London guns they would all be strapped up

[1dkl0l]

The Fear Of Being Seen/My Own Presence

I’m scrolling through TikTok and video after video pops up: If you’re not doing this, you’re ruining your life. Another one: If people aren’t leaving a conversation obsessed with you, you’re doing it wrong. Misinformation is rampant. My life as a stay at home girlfriend. If you scroll past this you’re a terrible person. How to glow-up, how to get off your phone, how to start loving yourself, how to save Palestine. Scrolling through it I know the algorithm serves me as much as I serve it. The moment you create an account and start scrolling, it's like a newborn baby in your arms. Watching, reacting, learning from all your behavior and movements and storing it away so you keep coming back to hold it in your hands. My feed, the videos I see are dictated by my input. So then why do I feel so terrible by the end of it? It’s like a magnifying glass for all of my deepest insecurities and pointless beefs with myself. My hip dips, my double chin, my not-dainty-or-coquette-at-all feet, my needs, my empty purse and heavy eye bags, my less than streamlined-optimized, un-picturesque life. I stop and stare at the beautiful girls on the screen, probably lip-syncing to crystal castles or deftones. Wishing I was them, wishing I could look away and never see anyone as perfect again. I could never be an exhibitionist but on my phone, I turn into a voyeur. I want to be them and at the same time I hate them, hate them for their beauty and their endless praise, their instant friends and doe gaze. You can’t say things like this outloud though, because it reveals to others something within yourself they’d rather turn away from, in themselves, and also in you. Like a pothole they sidestep in the road to not fall down on, a muddy reflection in the lake. I know I’m an angry person, is the thing. For all the times people have told me, “You’re so sweet.” I thank god they can’t taste how bitter the inside of my mouth is. I think we have to be this way though, and everyone has things about themselves which they’ll go to great lengths to hide. In a world full of shame and secrets, most of us would rather die than feel exposed. But the internet is full of exposure, and reeks of shame in every corner, and we learn from the treatment we witness others receive. For those of us who grew up isolated and cut off from their peers, the internet may have seemed like a safe-haven to hide. You could be anonymous, you could be a loser in real life but a god on tumblr or insane on 4chan or whatever your prerogative was. Especially growing up in an abusive household, the internet was an escape. I could lock myself in my room and go on my laptop or phone to disappear from the scene in front of me or inside me. I found more empathy and understanding from strangers than my own father. But now I wonder how much it has distorted my view of the world and others, and I resent the fact that it raised me more than my parents ever did. How many of us turned to our phones so we wouldn’t have to look at our parents faces? Yesterday I was watching a video on youtube and the narrator said how mothers and daughters are uniquely connected because of the way a mother and daughters amygdala are connected. Mothers and daughters have a unique ability to feel one another's pain. I was in the car with my mom once and she reached over to smooth out the crease between my furrowed brows. “Stop, my mother always did that,” She said, “I would wonder what she was thinking about. You do it too.” And sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t know who I feel more, myself, my mothers finger on my forehead, or the internet. I want to look away from her, to look away from my mother, to reject her as her own mother rejected her, to cut off her fingers from my forehead. But I keep staring at the mirror, I can’t look away from the girl, I can’t turn from my own mother. I can’t take my eyes off of her. How to start loving yourself.

[1dkl0l]

My father has sat up from his writing and finally found me in the quiet warmth of a hotel lobby thousands of feet in the air. The world sits below us and I hate that he chose in his death, in this dream, to ask me for anything at all: “I need you to do something for me.” Me, turning away, stepping towards the windows and the people so far down, opening my eyes but not to him.

[1dkl0l]

“I’ve been struggling lately” is simply too vague and they might not understand. “I’m fightin demons” gets straight to the point and they’ll know exactly what you mean

[1dkl0l]

getting the horrors of the Iraq war explained to me in detail by a hot man with a speech impediment

[1dkl0l]

this is me, if you even care…

[1dkl0l]

I am exactly where I am supposed to be on my predetermined path (by god, as well as a divine destiny instilled in me from birth) of doing Fuck All rn

[1dkl0l]

Me with my dumb little sack as I walk through the village I’ve just been banished from: Sowwy guysss 🥺👝

[1dkl0l]

As a child I felt the bad vibrations in the air for years after 9/11

[1dkl0l]

Limerance

All of the guys I liked disappeared the moment they came. That’s the type of woman I was, the girl you hung around with for a bit of casual fun but had no problem detaching from. That feeling of adoration and need they’d project onto me before they’d ask for just another video, another picture, a few more minutes, a specific request; it served its purpose and nourished a certain hope.

Then the messages would start to dry up. Slowly he’s coming over less and later in the night. With concerning ease, I’d watch him slip away into his life without me. I’d given it up on the first date and even when I didn’t want to, I’d brushed my fingers through his hair and saw the way his eyes closed in relief, I’d held back my judgment for his past. I’d given away parts of myself and thought that meant he’d be inclined to share some out of his own pockets. None of what I’d done made any difference to him at all. He didn’t have any concept of fair trade and I didn’t understand my part in this. My mothers love was only as real as it was transactional.

The closeness of sex with him made me forget about the space sitting between me and everyone else. It deluded me into creating from nothing a plastic emotional landscape where I’d imagine the version of him who really liked me animated the real one who only tolerated me. He’d lay next to me in bed and I’d fantasize I’d grow pregnant with his child. The whole time thinking, why doesn’t he shave? Why does he smell like nothing at all? Why do I need this from him? "Please loiter" read the sign hanging off my neck.

[1dkl0l]

I ordered breakfast for myself at a cute 1950s diner near me. I took it home to my apartment and unwrapped it like a present for myself, excited, and the woman had put two sets of silverware inside.