#because i keep feeling [redacted] too and i haven’t felt that in fucking. ages

[fakecoolkid]

I messaged you. And just like that, I slipped down a spiral staircase that ended in a pit of needles. Punctured, bleeding, wounded, delirious. I texted everyone I could. I slipped into a mild psychotic state. The KGB were after me again. The wavelengths in the air. Brainwashing me just like the words and actions of sociopaths and narcissists. I’m being puppeted by so many people. Who all holds the strings? I’m scared. Terrified. I’m spiraling out of control. I haven’t cried like this ever in my life. It is constant. Every day now for the past 5 days. I am not exaggerating. It got so bad that one of my alters had to front and take charge. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m scared to do therapy tomorrow. It feels like I am reliving every bad thing that has ever happened in my life all at once.

All the childhood trauma. All the teenage shit. Early adulthood. All the heart breaks. All the failed friendships. All the deaths. All the failures. All the pain. So much pain. No hope. No hope. Things felt hopeful for a little while until they came back into my life. Agent of chaos. You truly are. Good and Evil doesn’t really exist. But chaos? Yeah. I think… I think too much chaos tips me into an in unbalanced state where I cannot grasp anything, I have no anchor, and I fall so far that the only way out is [redacted].

I wanted to reach out to my first ex-fiancé. My first love. My first kiss. But I don’t think he ever wants to talk to me again. Ever. And realizing that today.. along with everyone else who has turned their back on me… I cannot breathe. I cry too hard. I hurt too much. I gasp and cough and choke from all the crying. How could someone who was so madly in love with me, despise me so much that they won’t even talk to me anymore?

What the fuck did I do? Was I really that awful to him? Am I a monster?

People I thought were my best and closest friends - gone. Poof.

So I look inward. What is it about me that makes it so easy to walk away and basically tell me “fuck off.” Or “I’m better off without you.”

Is it because of my severe mental illness? Did [redacted] abandon me because I was too sick? What about [redacted]? Or this or that. The list really does go on.

How can I love myself?

The “love” I learned at a young age was that of rape and abuse and punishment and fear. There were tender moments too. But mostly fear. Mostly solitude. I always had difficulty making and keeping friends.

Thanks autism.

Or whatever the fuck I have.

I think if I killed myself, a lot of people would probably just say, “it was only a matter of time.” Very few will be shocked. And I think very many will be disgusted because how can a piece of shit like myself atone for my sins if I am dead?

I don’t want to go to the ER. But I know how this ends. Because my alternative personality will step in and rat me out to my therapist. I want to die, but the other personalities do not.

Great.

Another 12-20 hours spent in a shitty psychiatric ER. Cool. Real cool.

[t4tstarvingdog]

just spent so much time working on art and it is recognisably me. it has good and accurate proportions and shading. the eyes are pretty and shaped right. and somehow i still feel like a fake artist

[errant-ezra]

A Story, I Guess

I just watched @danielhowell ‘s new video and I think it’s time for me to share my story. I know it probably won’t make much of a difference because not too many people follow me, but I need to talk about it. TW: depression, self harm, homophobia, suicide

My name is Elizabeth C[redacted]. Sorry, no last name, because I’d rather nobody from my school/town saw this.

I’m queer. I don’t really have any specific label because I’m still figuring myself out. I’m not sure if I’m a female or nb or gender fluid. I know I like women. I know I like nb people. I know I like men. I’d rather not try to figure out the exact word that defines me right now.

I grew up in a small rural town. I still live here. 300 people, pre-k through senior year. It’s beautiful, it really is. Mountains, rivers, our autumns are breathtaking. The only ugly things are the trashy grocery store and some of the people.

Up until third grade, I only knew “gay” as a word for happy. I didn’t know that there were people who liked the same gender. I certainly didn’t know people weren’t always the gender they were assigned at birth. Quite a few people in my town still don’t know.

When I was in maybe first grade, a bully at my school called me and a friend “lesbians” on the bus. My friend told me to tell the bus driver. I didn’t even know what it meant.

In third grade, before the Christmas concert, a kid came up and said “Elizabeth has gay happy meetings.” And I said, “yeah, I’m happy” and he said “no, it means you like girls.” I don’t think I really understood what he meant by that. I just went along with it.

Up until seventh grade, everything was uneventful. I wasn’t really aware gay people existed. A rumor went around in sixth grade that our music teacher was a lesbian but I stood up for her because, from everything I knew, being a lesbian was bad.

And then, in eighth grade, a girl showed up. And I was screwed. I realized I liked her. More than just a friend. And I was bi. I sat with her and another out girl in the back of the bus on the way home and we would talk about the girls we thought were pretty.

Even in such a small school, though, these girls were the outcasts. Nobody really talked to them and so, by association, nobody really talked to me either. I don’t think we even told anyone we were queer, but we didn’t really hide it either.

I was lucky. My older sibling came out to me as bi a year earlier, and it made me confident enough to come out to my mom in a letter. My mom is a wonderful person, I just want everyone to know that. She is my favorite person on the planet. But she wasn’t exactly supportive.

She told me the typical “it might be a phase” and “lots of girls your age experiment.” And I cried. A lot. Because all I had wanted was a simple ok. All I’d wanted was to be told it was alright and she loved me. And she said she loved me. But she didn’t say it was normal.

I have a lot of internalized homophobia from when I was a kid. Everything stupid or bad or unpleasant? Gay. There’s still kids in my senior class who do this, and who use the f slur. And it’s fucked me up a lot.

A year or two later, I came out to my dad, this time as Pan. He said it was ok. He didn’t really care, I was always going to be his kid and he was always going to love me. “There’s a lot of good in you, kiddo.” That’s the thing that sticks out most in my mind.

But the internalized homophobia was still there. I fought it off by trying to be obnoxiously queer, talking about how pretty girls were, throwing around my sexuality like confetti. And on the outside it worked.

On the inside, it didn’t. I have a genetic disposition for anxiety and depression. My mom says our thermostats for serotonin are just set too low. And in the summer before ninth grade, it got bad.

I went to a camp. Like, a camping type of camp where we went on hikes and slept in tents and only got to shower every other day. The first day I was seated at a table with a guy I’ll call Mike. And I could tell he was gay. He was talking about his significant other, tentatively mentioned he was a guy, and all the other people kept eating.

He and I became close friends over the rest of the week, along with a gender-fluid kid we can call Jack and a straight girl (she thought at the time, later she realized I was her lesbian awakening which sucks cause I had a huge crush on her at the time and hid it) I’ll call Kelly.

We talked a lot. The other three had pretty prominent mental health issues, and were open about it. I mentioned how my mental health wasn’t great either. The four of us bonded, and at the end of the week we promised to keep in touch.

Later that summer, we were still all in touch and my mind was getting worse, no small part due to the internalized homophobia. I self harmed for the first time, scratching my face until it bled. I had scabs for the rest of the summer.

After that, it only got worse. I started cutting, using a pencil sharpener I had and bandaging it with loose leaf. I was alone, I was hopeless, I didn’t belong, I wasn’t right. I started writing suicide letters pretty frequently.

In tenth grade, it reached its peak. I was in a very toxic relationship with a guy for quite a while, and it only worsened my mental state. I wanted support, but all I got was someone telling me to suck it up. So I sucked it up, and kept it inside, and let it eat away at me.

And then I fell in love. With a girl. And she was everything to me. She was silly and brilliant and so full of light and life. And I was so terrified of being with a girl that it took me four months of dating to finally kiss her.

But for the first time, I felt right. Even though there was this awful pressure and my mom was uncomfortable with me being with this girl, I felt so happy with her that I could ignore that. But I wasn’t good enough still.

As much as I wish I could say she saved me, I still had to save myself. And I was reluctant to do so. At this point I was on a small dose of Zoloft and was going to therapy, but I was still unmanageable. It got to the point where I would think about killing myself nearly every day. And then, one day, I opened my eyes and I had pills in my hand and a glass of water and I realized it was a mistake.

I didn’t kill myself that night. And I haven’t gotten that close since. But I still have panic attacks. I was clean for almost a year up until last week when stress caught up to me all at once. But I’m working on it.

My worst tendency, though, isn’t physical. I have this awful habit of finding any homophobic website, thread, discussion, whatever, and reading it until I can feel myself on the brink of a panic attack. I would do this over and over, feeding that hatred inside me. And I don’t know why.

I still do this, though I’ve gotten better. I have a bi pride flag hanging in my bedroom window. I have rainbow pride shirts and buttons. I have forced myself to accept who I am over and over, and some days it still feels impossible. But I’m getting there. And one day, maybe I’ll get to the point wherever that awful thing inside me doesn’t exist. But until then, I have to work and push every day to love myself.

I know this is just terribly long and probably not worth reading, but... I needed to say it. Because I’ve never put it all out there. And while that girl and I are no longer together, we still love each other. I’ve had some other relationships, but none of them have felt the same. I’m comfortable openly flirting with girls now.

Basically, what I’m saying, is that there is hope. It gets better. You are strong. You can survive. And also, it’s a process. It may take a while to truly love yourself, but I promise, you will get there. And in the meantime, just love being yourself. You’re living a life that nobody else will ever get to live. And that’s incredible. So take a minute sometimes to remember that. You’re worth it. You matter. We love you.

[cherry-o-piggy]

And old slew

posted 3/7/2021

I think my number one requirement is that you keep up, which only the mentally ill do.

What does it say about me that all my friends are ADHD?

The black boys, they pass and bob and chat to rap like it’s beat poetry in the 1960s. Here with them I am in a modern historical moment of art discovering my aesthetic and true calling. I see this after a bias worry on repeat, looking back it was not a real fear, just a humorous societal conception, and who have I ever been to subscribe to society. Me and my white girl friend out smoked them in their own home and my friend, I hugged him in front of his friends, and he walked us out of his house like a true gentleman. It was truly the part of my soul that I wanted to share in a social setting.

“You’re not in charge of me, T[redacted] is.”

It’s 10 degrees in the dark and it’s just me and my skin wrapped in tight black fabric flying up the powdered hill like I was never meant to touch the ground in the first place. It is still 10 degrees and I’m replaying everything that has ever happened like maybe I’ll get a second chance that I don’t need, but want still. The 10 degrees rummage around in my bones and all the pain this new year brought, the pain of becoming women, intertwines itself with my heart so there is no difference. The 10 degrees keep me warm, from the pit of my stomach to my chest and red cheeks. It’s enough right now.

The concept of solidarity flowed from Budimir’s lips along with sweeties and engagement, and I truly think it is the first concept I ever truly understood. I do not know respect or love or good. But I know solidarity, I know solidarity deep down in my bones and my blood and my soul. And it just goes to show, it was never me, I just never met a good teacher.

My lust still rides with you, for safe keeping.

I don’t remember what your voice sounds like anymore, I used to be able to hear it in my head.

Every man both looks like you and the man who wanted me dead.

Sometimes I am hollowed out enough that the only feeling I have is my hands and they don’t seem to bare my heart’s intentions. But it is a much deeper part of my being they represent, one I wish someone worse would fulfill for me. Pity I am the only beautiful thing.

Part of my soul is an iris in the wind.

A wealthy woman in the glass, a thesis sustaining the validity of age regression in design and mini-practice, and collections combatting change in order to hold on to something.

There was a few moments of my life where I was obsessed with the devil in the woods by the ocean and the magic I would be allowed if I could just exist somewhere beautiful to be a little odd in peace with equally passionate companionship. While the other burn outs dream of fantasy I dream of psudeo-realistic peace because I could never get there by myself, let alone with the chaos of another sentiment being.

You wouldn’t like me anymore. I’m an existentialist bc I am completely and totally unsure of myself as a concept. And it makes it immensely easier to flow along with the process of getting what I want.

In the dark the voice pokes at suicide in the highest of highest and I drown out the noise with the hope that in that grainy moment 5 guys ago you flicked away my perfect tears with your tongue and I was too intimate and vulnerable to fully feel it.

With a face this expressively cute and a brain this overwhelmingly neat I deserve a man to compliment my abundance completely.

I bet no one thinks about me at all. But that would be naive and hopeful.

If he is only supplying money as his position in your life, as soon as the money stops he no longer needs to be taken into consideration when making decisions because he is no longer a part of your life. If the only value you have is the provision of the bare necessities and no emotional connection you have no purpose after you no longer supply the means of survival because you made the decision and only did a quarter of the work needed to take responsibility for that decision.

Time isn’t who she used to be. Time used to drag and suffocate and strangle. Now Time is broad watercolor strokes to blurry, cotton eyes. I live the same day over and over with the same amount of nothing but I still do not feel the suffocation of monotonous repetition, not like I used to when I was young. I feel unfulfilled still, empty still. But it is not overwhelming. And this nothing that happens, the absolute repetition of activity happens so quickly now. Not like it used to. I feel like I’m always playing catch up. There’s never enough time, or maybe I am newly blind to her movement? Whatever the case, Time and I are strangers now, which is such a shame because I used to know her intricately, anxiously so.

Sometimes I dissolve into words, I think that’s why everything moves so fast.

I’m going to force my oddity on man and disregard everyone that has anything at all to say. I always said I was crazy, which drew extensive attention, but I no longer think that is fitting for me and who I aspire to become. I think I desire much more to be odd than to be mad. Eccentric.

A man bought me six and a half hours (after tax) worth of stuffed animals. And I haven’t even had sex with him. Fuck, that kind of feels like debt. Can I like hang out w him and like “drop” $50 somewhere he’ll eventually notice. I’ve never had to do that before, but I am willing to go that far. Actually, I did that to my GM last break (and I shouldn’t have, I deserve better compensation for my labor, but I refuse to be rude ever).

Why would I want a man that smells like wood?

Hanging out w me is like just me saying “no babies” over and over in different voices.

The feeling drips like sunflower blue syrup down my back. It feels too sharp to be harmless, but too quick to enjoy. And it leaves my chest hollow after it’s appearance. My limbs are heavy and my head is worried about the fluttering around that happened inside my chest last night, I wasn’t sure if it was death or symptoms of suffocation. My lungs just filled and I grasped my body from within my soul and when it was sufficient and neat, I dove back into the harmful thoughts of lust and the gripping behavior caused by being lonesome. This feeling doesn’t flow, it’s too stuck, it remains mine. So instead it drips.

I want to scream that I am good at what I do because a piece of me always felt that you doubted me. I am good enough that I read a love poem out loud to my high school class with the girl in the class and I didn’t get bullied for it, it didn’t scare her away, and my teacher complimented me about it. I was known by the whole high school as a writer and it wasn’t in a bad way. I used to write and edit peoples papers and I was an English tutor for middle school. My English 101 professor told me I should Publish my paper based on the three paragraphs that I wrote in twenty minutes right in front of him. I have not read a full book since sophomore year of high school and I am able to break down structures and themes of books by picking through about 30 pages, and from that I can developed a thesis, a five paragraph outline, research questions, and eventually a 6 page paper from 30 pages of a novel. I hung out with someone, read then my poetry and they were surprised that it was not cringe. Every English teacher I’ve ever had has loved me. I was already so familiar with the English language and the concept of grammar rules and their functions that I could speak in limited vocabulary sentences in Spanish when I was taking Spanish 2 (did I cry every single day, yes, but did I get an A, also yes). When I tell you I am a writer, I mean that it is my soul. It is the only reason I am alive. When I tell you I am good at what I do I mean I’m already published. Twice. I am good at what I do. So yeah, I know what a fucking genre is, bitch.

Even my abusers will tell you I’m good at what I do.

I need someone to press their soul into mine so that I am sure I have one.

Good morning honey bun 💛 I hope you have a wonderful day today and I’ll be sending good thoughts your way all day :) love you ❤️❤️

8 year old me would think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. I remember how critical I was of other women, I remember the way I used to pick them apart in my head about all their imperfects. It’s bc I only heard those things about myself. And I’m not proud, but I was a child and I am completely different now. I remember my favorite parts about women too. I remember how I used to melt for long hair and belly button piercings and being unashamed. I am tall and wealthy and have a million expressions. 8 year old me would stare at me in the store and hope to be her, 8 year old me would love to be 17 year old me. It’s all she ever wanted. I am everything I ever wanted. I am gorgeous.

Sometimes it’s claymation filter and my body is yellow and I am ugly and when I laugh my teeth are bucked. I get so clear that I am ugly. I get so outside of my own perspective that I have never uttered my own name.

I am so self aware and violently gone and ridiculous. And I’ve been wanting this. That I thank god for planning and hard work.

I’m a slut. :) beep