Silk curtains will inevitably tear with the backdrop of a stucco wall, it’s best to avoid a rough touch when you’re delicate. That lesson well learned as I walk up a concrete hill with bloody ankles, counting out loud and crying silently. Inside my head I lose myself. One step two where the fuck is home? I am neither here nor there. Trooper, yes I am a soldier without any stamina, what my body is capable of doing my mind sabotages with a simple thought. I am the architect of my own conflictions. And it’s cold and dark in here, where I sink into a dissonant well filled with ladders and prayers but it was never quite right in the bedroom I found solace in sleeplessness in. It was never quite right in the mind that created mine. Tied together they are lethal and I am listless and forlorn in an institution stairwell as I hit rock bottom. These colorless walls are not conducive to life, so I will raise them from the dead or I will die with meaning. A feeling as practical as the tick of a clock in the silence of an endless hallway. You will break every bone in your body as you fall through the broken mirrors of your muddled decisions, sleep in every bed you’ve ever made with deceit, carelessness and disregard. that’s the parking pass for perfection, that’s the way your heart sinks and throbs when you are forced to say goodbye before you’re ready. Finding home in a place with no windows, and breaking them all the same.
I’m not quite sure if you’re aware
But I miss you more than I can bear
I love you
Source: Staples eReader Department I read at 894 wpm! 258% higher than the national average…I guess all those years of reading every waking second, while walking and even in the shower, paid off haha
Felt that surge of energy leave a while ago. You spent your last labored breath all in one place. Waking up wearing nothing when you don’t remember taking it all off the night before is nothing short of terrifying. Exposed and vulnerable, hiding between cheap thread counts. It’s not just your eyes that can cry, though. Sadness seeps through your skin like rainwater soaks through your socks when you walk outside without your shoes just after a storm to see a rainbow. and sometimes it hurts to breathe so bad you don’t even want to live anymore. Haven’t you ever felt a burst of air rip through your lungs like it belonged to a family of knives, feeding your deepest fears? I don’t want to live in a house with only back doors and no mirrors. God, if I swallow my heart one more time I’ll choke and surely sleep forever.
And surely, surely I’ll sleep forever.
If you want or need to go somewhere, whether somewhere you’re eagerly looking forward to going, or somewhere routine, or to the dentist for a root canal which you may be much averse to but have nevertheless decided will leave you better off in the long run, and you get in your car, turn the key in the ignition repeatedly, yet the engine sputters but does not engage, this is not an indication that you don’t really want to go anywhere. It’s an indication that something is wrong with the equipment you need to transport you there.
I am fully capable of sitting for hours, thinking periodically, “I need to pee,” then, “I really need to pee,” and eventually, “Damn, I need to pee,” before being able to jump start the part of my brain which engages with the task of getting up and walking the ten feet to the bathroom, and initiates the movement which allows me to do that.
The more complex the task, the harder it can be, because a more complex sequence of actions must be, in some sense, imagined and targeted before the actions necessary to bring them about can be initiated. Most people are unaware that this process even takes place, because in a healthy brain, it occurs swiftly and automatically. In my brain, it does not.” —
Probably the best description of that particular aspect of depression that I’ve ever read. At least, that’s how it is for me.
i just need this on my blog again.
Self contained. Making her way through an obstacle course of tables, heart beating rapidly as she’s idly twirling her hair. Windows, she’s looking for windows. Of course. When you spend your life inside a pestilent dungeon, you look for solace in sunlight. But there are no windows here. She wonders briefly why nobody else has noticed enough to mention this. They are too familiar now, the others who accompany her in this place. Their voices all sound like writhing on glass on a humid day, the type of voices that would echo if there were no solid objects to soak up the sound. Muffle the emotion inside them. Is there even any emotion? It’s hard to tell in the dark, so many lives separated by all these tables, and invisible barriers no one dares to cross. She breathes out air she wasn’t aware she was holding in. Broadsided by …. No, that never happened. She tugs the stray strands of her hair down hard to make sure her body hasn’t gone away, into the cold transparent fog with the others. She sees something across the room but cannot make it out as love, and suddenly it is clear to her that there is no real passion without desperation. Her hands clench with unexpressed emotion. Can’t find her calm. Self restrained. Never loved more, never wanted less. The sun beats hard on the rooftop, she doesn’t know. But she never stops looking for windows.
I’m having a hard time understanding how I ever managed to convince myself that I moved on when we broke up. I can’t fathom even having an inkling of feeling fior anybody who isn’t you. Deep down, I know you know this, but sometimes the shadows block your view: I’ve only ever been yours. Heart, soul, body, none of that has ever belonged to anybody but you. When you disparage yourself as unworthy of me, I want to hold you forever and maybe shove you violently off of a bridge but without letting go of your hands. I wish I would have kissed you when I passed you all those times on campus, stiff and silent. I ached so much for you. But please know I would not change a thing about the past if it meant we wouldn’t have each other now. Each person, event, and feeling was a stepping stone, a milestone leading you home to me and I to you. I need you to understand how vehemently I want you to be the only person I kiss, squeeze, play with, fight with, touch, love, know, embrace, make love to, HAVE….for the rest of my whole life. I’m right here, baby.
I always have been.
every seven minutes I feel his pulse to protect against what i’ve long been afraid of: the sudden halt of his heartbeat. It happened once, long before i could protect him. His breath was deep, though. He became a soldier, immune, quiet, controlled. Now there’s so much more at stake, so I was sent to keep him safe. Every seven minutes is the same. Seven because eight is taking a risk and six, well six is just being silly. Nobody’s life ends in six minutes. The less we know the better we feel but we’re only one drink away from danger. Danger that should be cancelled out by intoxication, but is instead fueled by it. There was a time when my mescaline was lost to those society does not value and you would think that would make it all the easier to steal it back, make it mine again. Right? True, but theft is not my game of choice…I much prefer the art of outshining. I need him like death needs life. I touch his wrist…steady. calm. Four hundred twenty seconds to breathe.
Apparently I hardly ever have a point. Why am I crying so hard. That hurts so bad
I remember , I remember how many nights we never slept together.
Give me pain and ill turn it into mud, stick it under the wheels of my car and try to run. I’ll never be okay without you.
Three years with someone you weren’t in love with is not three years.
I wasn’t in love.
Not without you
Nobody wants any part in who you are until you do something wonderful, or are associated with something awful.
It’s a sad day when I pry myself from the safety and warmth of my bed on the late afternoon of a rainy day and I sway my hips to sad sad beautiful songs and feel mostly hopeless, mostly just like the weather but I guess there’s hope in mostly hopeless, I like my skin today because it’s soft and tinted brown and lovely but I don’t like the idea of having to hide it under dark clothes, don’t like the idea that I have to work but would hate it even more if there was nothing for me to do because I’m damned if I don’t, my my what would I think of myself if I wasn’t me? Probably sad, maybe intrigued, I’d probably hate me but just not as much as I hate me. These songs are so beautiful they make me want to be sad forever because I just don’t enjoy them as much when I’m status quo and happy although I never find myself quite so beautiful and complete as when I’m sad and sad and sad..
…..welcome back, depression.
If I had a boyfriend who talked to me the way you talk to me, would you fear for my well being and describe my relationship as abusive? If he haunted me as I locked myself in my room, screaming at me and berating me, kicking and kicking and kicking to get the door down and threatening to get in no matter what, and you were aware of this, would you think my behavior had in any way warranted that kind of abuse? If he frequently and excessively called me a stupid spoiled bitch, a disrespectful brat, a psychotic piece of shit, would you not be the first to threaten him and possibly even take legal action against him? What about if he raised his voice at me so badly he was screaming at the top of his lungs, a deep static rage released from the bottom of his chest, vibrating his core and shaking the floor. If he raised his hands to overpower me, if he repeatedly threatened me that I would regret being such a selfish bitch. I bet you’d kill him, dad, with your bare hands. Wouldn’t you.
So why is it different when the perpetrator is you?
If he manipulated my mind with his fluctuating personas, his victim complex, his guilt trips and his dissociation from reality. Refusing to listen to me or even show any human emotions towards me. If he suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder and couldn’t see past himself to care for me or anyone. If he berated me so often I couldn’t remember the last time he made me feel good, and he constantly reinforced how good I have it, how bad I am, and how I don’t deserve to be treated like anything better than the piece of shit I am, would you side with him? Would you tell me I must show him utmost respect regardless because he loves me and has done a lot for me? I’m not so sure you would. So why, then, do you do so for my mother?
Just because you gave me life does not give you control over that life. It does not give you power over my mind or the PRIVILEGE to abuse me. I’m all grown up now. I need nothing from you. I’m leaving your house in a month. I feel like I’m exploding inside my skin. I will not be a victim to your sicknesses anymore.
I think I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I know self diagnosing is sort of stupid, although really when you think about it nobody knows you better than you. But I was diagnosed with GAD about four years ago and I’ve been suffering from panic attacks and everyday anxiety ever since, and although I don’t really have rituals, I do feel like the symptoms of OCD fit me better than GAD. That’s probably stupid. It’s just that anxiety is characterized by worry about everyday things, all the time, and OCD is focused more on obsessions and false memories and recurring bad thoughts and that is exactly what I live with. I quit my medication because it was making me dull and lifeless but without it my thoughts and emotions become somewhat psychotic and I can’t control my anger and obsessiveness and guilt, just overwhelming guilt with no source. Just bad feelings I can’t control. They aren’t constant but they are frequent, several times a day on a bad day. Irrational thoughts, painful feelings, overwhelming self hatred. There’s also a flat, uncomfortable depression that never leaves my side, weighing down my body and my thoughts. I’m unmotivated. Stay up late for no other reason than trying to fall asleep is boring to me and because I obsess over keeping myself busy, and then sleep in until I force myself out of bed either for work or because it’s after 1pm and I hate myself. When I was 18 I was deeply depressed and I had similar habits, although more extreme. I guess to some sedation might be the more attractive alternative to the psychosis but I’d rather feel everything, even if a lot of it is bad, than feel nothing.