a poem about using anger as a defense mechanism to hide your insecurityRead More...
hello my angsty internet strangers! so: i homeschool, which is how i have the time to maintain this blog and all the social media and stuff. also, drumroll please… I’M DONE ALL MY SCHOOLWORK FOR THIS YEAR!! (more or less; i still have corrections on one assignment and a french test.) so because i have all that free time and empty brain space, i’m planning on posting more often on this blog, since for the next four months i’m going to have a lot more free time. so from now on, i’ll post on mondays and fridays. i’ll probably ramp up my posting later in the summer, but for now i’m going to keep it at that.
also, for those of you who don’t know, i have a wattpad account, and i just posted a short story. it’s called the sleep and it’s about an insomniac who uses the internet alias starryskye.e. she’s lonely, and kind of me as a 19-year-old university student studying astrophysics, and she designs a robot to be her friend, called SootheBot. the story chronicles her friendship with SootheBot and talks a lot about philosophy and mental health and angst, and it’s awesome. read it here if you want: https://www.wattpad.com/story/188806434-the-sleep. and if you have wattpad, you can follow me here: https://www.wattpad.com/user/dragonwritesthings. (yes, my username is dragonwritesthings. don’t judge! i am VERY PROUD OF MY USERNAME.)
big hug and deep breath,
trigger warning: numbness and confusion
close your eyes; the world hurts too much. ask if anyone’s seen the part of you that cared, and point to the hole in your chest, and when other people don’t see it, grab out your goddamn magnifying glass. show them the cuts and scrapes and bruises. show them the emptiness, but of course they won’t get it, so maybe it doesn’t exist. rock yourself asleep against the quiet nothingness. love is the feeling that makes your heart slam rhythms into your chest this is the start of the song of your life the inspirational posts on tumblr did tell me this. my life is a song but… i don’t know the lyrics yet. hope for something to last so hard it feels like you’re about to shatter the glass heart nestled in chest but i’m still not sure what it is. take off your glasses let the whole world shift in and in and out and in and out of focus. there will be screaming forests and the horror stories and the haunted houses. it’s a choice yes but it’s a choice made out of the belief that i am nothing if i am not a nice neat package. and you’ll call them up begging for someone to remind you why you are alive but the words will stay silent inside and oh my god the sound of your voice is enough to bring every single memory to life, and oh my god why do i want to just die sometimes, and oh my god why do the nightmares follow me every and every night, and i’m spinning again, because the feelings are too much. and i’m punching again and trying to see if this time i can leave bruises because bruises mean some kind of validation, and some kind of closure, and closure means permanence, and i swear i’m working through it with my therapist but right now her office is the only place my mind even makes sense. but maybe these feelings are not just feelings. maybe they are really just a message, and it’s all there in front of me written in code if only i could read it. and maybe someday the ghosts in my chest will all assemble into order and bow before me and start cleaning out my chest. and what i mean by that is every single one of these letters is art but it’s also just me knocking doors in the middle of the night, hoping someone will get it without words when i hold the magnifying glass up to the tears pooling in my eyes. and it’s also just my heart filling up like a hot air balloon before exploding all night. and it’s also my lungs. breathing. and the oceans inside me. and it’s also the feeling of your arms wrapped around my shoulders and my arms wrapped around your shoulders and the way it’s the warmest feeling that even though i’m not sure what it is, something about me made this person care enough to wrap their arms around me. and i still can’t really believe that somewhere between the broken pieces, i managed to make you happy.
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trigger warning: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, anxiety, mental illness, anger at family/figures of authority, hopelessness/ feelings of depression
have you ever tried to alphabetize your pain like when you were done you’d be able to understand the stuff that goes down inside your brain? because the thoughts are whipping through me and she thinks i’m doing all right and i don’t know how to let you down without being depressing ‘cause even when i’m happy i’m falling and i’m sitting here waiting for you to call me because if it’s you who calls me it’ll be all right and if it’s you who’s in control i won’t have to hate myself for wanting to be in control sometimes and caring too much and caring too little and if i’m like you will you love me oh wait but there’s always something wrong with me and the more i think about it the less sense it makes because everything is foggy and my brain is wired wrongly and sometimes i can’t take the weight of the twisting feelings a monster rising up inside me and i can’t think clearly without the music pounding the thoughts out of me. and what they don’t understand is that when i punch myself it’s because words didn’t work and neither did standing and neither did screaming and i need someone to listen to me. i need to make sense of the chaos and i need to get this out of me. and if you won’t let me breathe then am i still allowed to breathe and if i hate myself is it ok to need you to love me? and if i don’t know who i am, is it ok to be your property? and is this really my life is this really my life and is it ok that sometimes i google ways i could die and stand at the edge until the numbness and fear melts the pain and the voice in my head is done screaming but it’s never done screaming and it’s never really ok for any prolonged period of time and my heart is so heavy and i’m not sure i can carry it and i’m tired of living like this but right now i’m not sure anything can fix it and i need to talk, but no one has enough time to listen. but i get it, and i promise i’m not trying to get you to carry my burden. i just wish you understood the way the mix of overwhelm anxiety exhaustion and something like depression has of burning so bright that the colours vacuum themselves black-and-white all around me like i’m stuck in the second the photograph develops and it’s blurry all around me. and i’m so tired of humanity being so fucked up and i’m tired of my hands shaking every time i try to hollow out my throat and show you what it’s like in my mind and i’m tired of missing nothing about being a kid but hating myself unquestioningly. the monster in my head has me tackled and it keeps whispering things i’d never do except maybe i would because i worry i am nothing compared to the black hole inside me and it feels like i’m being possessed and these decisions are not choices, they are grasps into darkness. i hate that i wanted to die when i was six years old and what kind of person wants to die when they’re six years old and where did i even get that concept from and why can’t i just grow up and be all right like everyone else and why is loving other people so difficult and why does the poison i injected into my own veins become more apparent the more i try to heal from it taking slow steps away from the murder scenes where i am both the killer and the victim scattered through my veins. and my fingers shake and my life doesn’t feel like it’s worth anything today because it can’t be worth anything today because the pain is too much to handle and when nothing else works this is my fire escape and i’m falling apart right in front of you, and yeah i’m hanging in there, but the medication isn’t helping and and you don’t understand that i actually want to be happy and i wish you could accept that i don’t always have logical justifications for my feelings and i’m falling apart and i need you to listen, and i need you to not be afraid, and i need something i’m never going to get, and i hate that i still can hear every single time you’ve told me i’m a disappointment, and i’m drowning, and i need you to not call me selfish or be disgusted, and i need you to let me breathe, and what i need is for you to get it this time. but you won’t. and i know that. and my therapist says i need to learn to live with that. and i’m trying my hardest not to make my heart the breeding ground for desperation but it’s harder when i’m shattered glass on the ground trying to put myself together with my bleeding fingers but it really hurts, and the words i don’t know how to say are that a breakdown is when being alive feels pretty impossible today.
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trigger warning: mention of medication, self-harm, hopelessness, feelings of depression
i like to pretend that i’m only half real. like a ghost, slipping in and out of myself. i like saying weird things, it makes other people laugh and it makes me feel warm and kinda happy, if happy is that feeling like someone has just flicked on a lightswitch but the lightswitch is in your body. and i like to pretend things, when i’m feeling really dreamy, like that the sky is crumpling gently, wrapping paper revealing the stars, but mostly i just pretend that when i’m writing. every morning i take a small white pill in a yellow tinted bottle that reminds me of a manic stained glass window branded specifically for my kind of crazy, and every afternoon i resent it for doing nothing except making recovering from headaches less easy. every afternoon, i write poetry and sometimes it’s awesome, but sometimes it feels like it’s leading up to nothing. and every afternoon, my parents tell me that the sky is falling, and i believe them, but only barely, and still there are constantly seeds of anxiety, weeds of compulsions and worries i have to pull out of my body. and some nights, i like to sleep with the curtains closed and the windows open, so i can hear the world, and just know that in the morning, when my brain is a little less empty, it’ll still be there for me. but other times, when i’m crying, i throw things, and i barricade the door closed, and i dig my nails into my palms and when you grow up with mental illness i think you grow up learning that broken is all right. and in the night, i just sort of stare at the bleeding roses of my screensaver, and at night, i swear it’s the only time where everything comes together. like every morning, i am a clueless little kid and i’ve grown up by midnight but by midnight it’s time to go to sleep again. and the thing about healing is that it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever fucking do, and the road toward it is longer than any distance you will ever walk again. there is no compass, there is no map, and sometimes you will make progress, and sometimes you will run out of water, and sometimes you will backtrack. and maybe i am guilty of not trying hard enough, but the word poetry is enough to make me sick to my stomach, and that feeling. makes me feel disgusted. and that feeling. makes me want to claw at my skin again, claw at my skin until my body knows that i’m in control of it. and every sunrise means the start of another day spent clawing myself out of a chasm. and at night. it’s like there’s no internet. like the stars have swept away my compulsions. and i’m dying for that. and i’m broken. and i don’t know who broke me, but i do know i’m falling apart for that. and i do know that at some point, something inside me passed the point of no return in the black hole in my soul and let me tell you. that whatever theories they have, about alternate universes beyond the infinite. i’ve technically never found anything to prove them wrong. but so far, all i’ve found is heaviness; glimmers of sleepdust. and the echoes of words, but to me they sound like bullets.
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