I Am Slowly Killing Myself

so insanely fucked up that i have to spend the rest of my life working like. ten times as hard to function as a normal person because of shit that wasn't my fault. wdym i have to spend the rest of my life medicated and in therapy just because my parents were mean to me and then died?????????????? like at what point is that shit worth it because i'm medicated and going to therapy and i still have absolutely zero hope for myself. nothing has changed except the fact that everything has gotten progressively worse and it's my fault but i don't know how to end the cycle i genuinely can't take this

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

why were you put in a psych ward

I was creative and ahead of my time

I have a confession:

I hate being in my room all the time. I want to be anywhere else but here. Selfishly, I wish people would invite me over more often. I want to sleep in any other bed but my own. But it doesn’t make too much of a difference, my bad dreams follow me no matter where I go, I suppose it just feels less lonely.

My friends gift to me a glimmer of hope occasionally; and when they do, all I can think about is how badly I want to see and know the adult versions of them. I think about how nice it would be to have an extra room, or maybe a pullout couch, at the disposal of any friend looking for a warm bed and an ear to listen. I think about them coming to my house just to ask for a cigarette, and to talk about their troubles while we sit on the porch. I think about how I’ll attend (and cry at) their weddings, and I think about how I’ll be with them through messy breakups, and all the inbetweens. I think about how I’ll have their favorite snacks in my cupboard, and how I’ll make sure there’s always an extra toothbrush for them. I think about how I’ll have toys stored away for their potential kids when they visit, and I think about how I’ll get to watch all of us grow up.

I often times think the only thing stopping me from ending it is fear, but I think a little harder about the people I love, and suddenly it feels like my heart is trying to claw through my chest, and grasp onto any hope for the future.

I want to be there to love those around me until I can no longer leave my bed, and my last breaths are be spent cherishing their names.

i gotta end my shit for real

noah jupe as otis lort in honey boy (2019) dir. alma har’el

Sometimes, all we really need is to be heard without having to fight for it.

I brought up how I felt—disconnected, unsure, a little tired of carrying the weight of unspoken things. And for once, I wasn’t met with defensiveness or silence. I was met with understanding. With effort. With a gentle “let’s fix this.”

It reminded me that love shouldn’t feel like walking on eggshells. It shouldn’t leave you questioning your worth or your voice. Sometimes, the simplest conversations can feel like healing.

I’m learning that being heard without having to explain myself twice is a kind of love I didn’t know I needed. I don’t need perfect. I just need real.

15 January, 1926 The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf (1924-1941)

am i too much or not enough? because i feel like i only ever seem to be one of the two.

i feel like i’m subpar in everything in every way; and i know that almost every person on this damned earth feels the same,

but i can’t seem to shake the feeling—or belief rather—that at the end of everything there’s nothing.

at the end of everything all i have is me. and i guess that’s a reality i have to accept. it is true for everyone that we only have ourselves at the end of the day, but i’m so scared that no matter what i'll always end up alone