#personal diary entry

[mangle-my-mind]

very weird day, very weird week. Today I went to my grandmother's funeral and immediately after to the closing for my apartment. Huge milestones in very opposing directions, and now I'm just kind of tired.

Tomorrow I'm giving a work lecture, that I probably should prepare for a little more. Friday is my birthday. My family all got together today for my grandmother, and Sunday we'll get together again for me.

Nothing of note to say, really. I just wanted to put it down somewhere. I'm gonna find a comfy movie to watch and do some meaningless crafts for the rest of the day :)

[ohtobeleah]

Don’t let the happiness of my wedding fool you besties—I’m still in full burn out mode.

Baileys been back at work the past two days and I’ve just sent him off this morning for the third day. Which means for the last few days it’s just been me at home for the first time since I quit my job.

When I quit Bailey was already on sick leave with the flu, and then he got really sick with that cyst we thought was a hernia but wasn’t a hernia and was in and out of the emergency room.

So because of the wedding planning and Baileys health concerns I felt like I didn’t get a chance to properly process my own journey? If that makes sense. And now I’m just sitting here, the house has never been cleaner or more silent. I’m alone, with my thoughts and emotions and feelings and all I have to say is I’m burnt the fuck out.

I’m trying my best to love myself, to nurture the workaholic people pleaser I’d become. To heal from the negative impacts left behind from my last job. And the more I do that the more I wanna get out of the fitness industry while I still have a chance.

I have an incredible job offer waiting for me. The owner is willing to wait for when I’m ready to step on board because that’s how valued I am. But I’m just not ready to do it. I know if I start this job I’m gonna struggle with the ever looming body dysmorphia and restrictive lifestyle. Because that’s just what happens when you’re body is seen as your business card.

I’ve been out of practice for a month now and I’m still trying to process the situation. I knew after the wedding/honeymoon was when I’d struggle the most.

[julykings]

by candlelight

[belovedapollo]

recently, I don’t think I’ll ever run of things to write down, thoughts to let out 🌾 reblog ok, don’t repost

[badolmen]

RIP to all of the British people who have to deal with the BBC/national officials shutting the country down the next few weeks that’s gonna be rough.

[ghost-proofbaby]

if it were anyone else (e.m.)

warnings: strong allusions to depression, disordered eating/rough relationship with food, mentions of smoking, description of a sort of panic attack. very sad. hurt/comfort? not edited.

wc: 1.6k+

a/n: this is literally entirely self indulgent and written entirely after i sat and cried and thought "i wish i had eddie here right now to hold me". maybe in like thirty minutes tops. this is for me and only me. go figure lol. sorry. yeah. anyways.

if you relate, my askbox is always open, and i'm very sorry you've felt this way as well. i hope you all take care of yourselves. drink some water, call a friend. be kind to yourself.

“I’m worried about you.” 

Four words that always manage to strike a certain type of fear in your gut. You don’t know how to react as he says it, how he wants you to react. You can only stare blankly, you can only wish harder for the earth to swallow you whole.

“What do you mean?” you laugh nervously, following it with a hard swallow.

You’re playing dumb. You know it, he knows it. The tremor in your bones and your numb appendages know it, too. 

“You’re…” Eddie stalls, licking his lips, letting his eyes rake over you, “You’re getting bad again.” 

You’re quick to shake your head, forcing another hollow chuckle from your chest, “It’s not that bad. I’m fin-”

“You’re not fine.”

The look in his eyes could crack your spine if you stare too long. Wet eyes, a trembling bottom lip, worry lines etched into his forehead that you realize might be caused by you.

You’re causing him worry. The last thing you want to do, you’ve accomplished. You’re on a fast-track to becoming a burden – the first step is always acceptance. 

You’re still unsure of how he wants – no, needs you to react right now. This conversation is a landmine for both of you, and you hold every breath with every step as you try to navigate it. If you make one wrong step, it could cause an explosion that spares no survivors.

You don’t mind if it tears you apart limb by limb. You do mind if it hurts him. 

“How… How do you know that?” 

It’s not a sarcastic snipping or defensive deterrence. It’s an unfiltered response of genuineness – you want to know the signs, you want to know what has exposed the rot this time.

And then, maybe next time, you’ll be able to better shield it from him with this knowledge. 

“How could I not?” he takes a deep breath in through his nose, and you focus on the flare of his nostrils rather than any of the tears beginning to gather at his waterlines, “It’s been happening for a while now, though, hasn’t it?” 

Your throat is a cage, tight and restrictive and ringing with a bitter metallic taste in its tenseness. You can’t respond with words. You can only nod. 

He chooses to answer your question more properly now that you’ve admitted it, “You’re cold all the time again. You’re always sleeping too much or too little. You’re smoking again, running yourself into the ground. Picking up distractions like they’re going out of style.”

“Hey, they might be. We never know-” you cut yourself off when your eyes meet his. Now’s not the time for jokes, “Sorry. I… I know. I’m sorry.” 

He’s right. Fuck, he’s right. 

“I want to ask you something, and I need you to answer me honestly,” his own steps across these landmines are just as delicate, just as feathery light, as your own. You hear it in his tone, see it in his body language. You wish your body could sink into the mattress you’re sitting on the edge of as he crouches in front of you, warm palms connecting with your knees. Grounding you. Tethering you. Holding you back from that sinking you crave. “Are you… Sweetheart, are you okay?”

If anybody else had built up to such a stupid question, you would have laughed in their face. You would have shoved those warm palms right off of your skin and you would have thrown up those ice cold hands of your own, shouted obviously not. 

Obviously not. I’m not okay. I’m so far from okay, it’s a bit comical. I am drowning. I am treading in freezing cold waters and I am barely capable of keeping my head above the waves. My engine is fucked, my tank is empty. I don’t think I’d even know how to be ‘okay’ again if you did manage to pull this mangled body of mine from these depths and sat me down on safe, solid ground again. 

You can’t say any of this, though. Not because you don’t trust him, not because he would judge you. But because the moment he asks the question that should make you scoff, you let out a sob instead. Something like a muffled, broken wail that tears from deep within you. It had already been ready and poised, laying in wait for a perfect moment like this one to escape. 

His eyes aren’t the only glossy ones anymore. 

“I-” you start, breathing already stuttering and chest already constricting, “I- I-”

“Hey,” he palms smooth up your thighs, carrying their warmth with them, as if he were trying to spread it across you. As if he had heard your thoughts. As if he already knew all about those dark, treacherous, freezing waters you were stranded in. All you can do is spew out another cry, strangled as you tried to swallow it down before it entered the atmosphere between you two, “Hey.” 

You only notice the tears when you crumple forward and he meets you halfway. Those warm palms, those hands so capable of safety and promise, cup your cheeks and his thumbs make quick work of swiping away the salty streams. 

“Hey, baby, breathe for me,” his voice is tragically gentle, “Just one deep breath, okay?” 

To demonstrate, you watch his chest expand dramatically, his hands forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 

You can’t see through the bleariness. 

“C’mon, sweetness,” he encourages again, “One breath. Just one.” 

If it were anyone else, you’d turn into a fit of rage at the coddling. You’d break everything in sight. You’d scream until your already burning lungs finally collapsed as they’d been yearning to for so long. 

But it’s him. It’s just him, it’s just Eddie. 

His chest rises dramatically again, and this time, yours does as well, albeit through stifling hiccups. You’re dizzy from the lack of oxygen and the flood of emotion that was wrecking you. 

“There you go!” his voice rises ever so slightly, and when you flinch a bit at the sudden volume, he retracts, “Sorry, sorry. But that’s it, sweetheart. Another one, okay?” 

Another breath. Another sob. Another wave of all the pain you’ve been battling off. 

You’re cold all the time again. You’re always sleeping too much or too little. You’re smoking again, running yourself into the ground.

He was right and it fucking killed you. None of those are things you could ever shield him from. You didn’t have the heart to pull away those numb and icey fingertips every time he’d reach out for your hand, or try to cover the shivers that managed to rack your bones even in the middle of summer. The sleeping situation had been spiraling, a pendulum of sleepless nights that would end in a sleep so deep that you could have been mistaken for resting with the dead. Maybe the smoking you could have hid, especially when you’d been so boastful about quitting. 

You weren’t running yourself into the ground. You had already collapsed into the dirt, you had already joined the worms. You’d buried yourself alive, six feet under, and nothing could have stopped him from sniffing out that scent of decay on you. 

The death of a soul and mind. The death of the thing that had propelled you forward for so long. No amount of sweet perfume, or hour long scalding showers, or minty gum to occupy your mind rather than a proper meal, can erase that stench. 

You never could have shielded him. He always saw right through you. Always had, always would. 

“I’m sorry,” you end up crying out. 

You don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but you echo the words again. Over and over, on repeat, until he’s rising from the ground. Until he’s sat beside you. Until his arms are suddenly encasing you and you’re awarded a warmth you didn’t feel deserving of. 

He doesn’t smell like the decay you’d surrounded yourself with. He smells like slow waking in the morning, dreary and calm and at a reasonable time. He smells like warm baths that only relax your bones, and don’t have to blister your skin in the process. He smells like three meals a day, all comforting and all effortless and that never linger with a sense of regret.

He’s not decay, never even treading close to death. He’s home. He’s the promise that you could be okay. Even if it isn’t right now. 

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs into the crown of your head, squeezing you tighter into his chest, not even blinking an eye at the patch of wetness you leave behind from where your cheeks bury against him, “Never apologize. Ever. Not with me, sweetheart. Keep the sorries. I don’t need them.” 

If it were anyone else, the holding would have suffocated you. But it’s him. It’s Eddie.

You don’t fight him when he pulls you fully into his lap, situating the two of you comfortably on that mattress. 

You don’t know how long you let him cradle you like that. How much of that time is spent filled with your cries, or how many breaths he gently urges you to take with him. He never once has to verbally say what you already know; he never once promises aloud that it’ll be okay. He doesn’t put that pressure on you, not yet. Not today. Not when he knows the journey to okay is still such a long one. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers to you instead, “I’ve got you, now, sweetheart.” 

If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t believe them. 

But it’s him. It’s Eddie. 

And he’s got you, for now and for as long as you need.

[itsamenickname]

Question: If Luigi, were to say, accidentally find Bowser's diary (sort of like Peach did in Paper Mario) while they're dating, what would the diary entries say?

[llsadgirl]

I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.

[teentoospoiled]

débutante diaries

weekly journal entries reflecting on my teen years, advising teenage viewers for their adulthood debut

My ignorance sabotaged me.

As smart as I was as a teenager, I didn’t know any better making a lot of past choices. I either followed the misguidance of my mother or had to figure things out myself because no guidance was available.

How could I know any better when my parents, grandparents and other adult authority figures were equally immature?

Immature and ignorant about money, womanhood and specifically dating.

My ignorance has led me to experience many harsh lessons. Lessons that made sure I smartened myself up.

Not even harsh lessons. In fact, many of my “shoulda, coulda, would’ve,” moments come from reflecting on misuse of my time.

Instead of listening to music on my hour plus journey to work, I wish I was listening to podcasts about financial literacy and investing (like Bitcoin! Damn I should’ve!)

Instead of giving grown ass men access inside my teen body, I wish I could have educated myself on abstinence and how to practice hypergamy with boys my age. In addition to preparing myself for dating up as an adult.

I won’t waste time wishing anymore. Instead, I am choosing to teach myself game I deserved to know as a teen. Game about these boys (men now). Game about life and how evil, Shiesty people keep the world balanced.

I have entered a new, interesting part of my womanhood. One which has me reflecting on where I’ve been in life and where I’m going.

Where I’m going is determined by the steps I choose to take. That’s why I’m making more wiser moves, starting with journaling about my teenhood instead of trying my hardest to forget those memories, some memories being my darkest moments.

2024 is already starting off an interesting year. So, let me sign off by stating an intention for success:

I have evolved into a woman who inspires strangers on sight. My aura, attitude and accomplishments attracts additional abundance. I am proud of the person I am and the progress I’ve made.

BuyMeACoffee, but I prefer wine ;)

[vulcanette]

Big moon! Big moon! Big moon!

[mangle-my-mind]

This apartment reno project is, unsurprisingly, one step forward and two steps back

[elvthron]

It’s been a while since I’ve written something here (thanks covid! Im still facing a few difficulties due to this bad b***), so why not resume to make posts again?

I wanted to share a little thing I did to myself to bring with me my altar’s energies and influeces: a Witch pouch!

So yes, the main items I used were:

- Selenite (crystal with lunar attunement, known as an energy cleanser, powerful stone of luck and protection)

- Pine cone (to represent the one onto the Thyrsus, Dionysus’ staff, a symbol of prosperity, fertility, and hedonism)

- A charm depicting Diana (just in case..)

- Mugwort (a herb I’m strongly bond to, but besides that, a herb associated with Diana herself, with the moon, with the feminine)

- A hagstone/“Diana’s stone” (as Charles Godfrey Leland writes in the “Aradia, Gospel of the Witches”: because finding a holed stone meant that the finder has Diana’s favor)

Also, I know it’s unrelated but can I say how much I love this pouch? I got it from a vintage market, it was a 60s-70s fabric belt’s container, the belt has the very same black velvet + decorations (sharing a picture of that as well!), that reminds me of Black Henbane flowers 🖤

[deslizada]

rereading Exit Strategy so I can reread Network Effect so I can read System Collapse and I got to the part where murderbot is talking about Sanctuary Moon and says "it made me feel like a person". and then Mensah says "you are a person." and it struck me as weird that Mensah would say that, because doesn't everyone have That One Piece of Media that made them feel like a person for the first time? shouldn't Mensah laugh and say "oh, yes, I understand"?

I've said before that I relate to murderbot most as a cult survivor rather than as an autistic or queer person. I think I should also say that I do relate to it as an autistic person, but not in the way everyone else seems to. the way I relate to murderbot most is from being an unperson, and then having to (re?) construct an identity wholesale from profound personal trauma. I know, intimately, what it is like to have your personhood disregarded. and the only thing that helped me survive being an unperson until high school was quite literally the media I consumed.

anyway the movie that made me feel like a person for the first time was The Crocodile Hunter

[paperw0rmz]

[a-daisy-in-the-dark]

4/8/24

[judasdreams]

I went to the stores today and it completely wiped me out.

3 hours pretty much constantly on my feet and I remembered why I dread leaving my apartment so much.

On the upside I bought nintendo switch and despite some unexpected issues with my debit card, I can confirm that I infact do not regret buying it. I was afraid I would, but honestly it's really nice. (Heavy, and I need better grips for using it as a handheld, but still.)

I do kinda still feel guilty about buying it, but... "if it's another thing that keeps you from unaliving yourself, it's not wasted money."