I’m barely room temperature my love, but thank you for you took the time to send me this sweet little message :*
Passenger—Feather on the Clyde
well I would swim but the river is so wide
and I’m scared I won’t make it to the other side
well God knows I’ve failed but He knows that I’ve tried
I long for something that’s safe and warm
but all I have is all that is gone
most of the things I’d do for a ham & cheese toastie right now are actually illegal and/or life threatening
oh and I feel like shit because someone who means a lot to me thinks I’m ignoring her for a reason when in reality keeping in touch with people is just too much at the moment
I’m sorry for being such a ham & cheese toastie craving let-down
I wish I could be a kiwi craving let-down because I got kiwis in my room
Fuck that person. Or, rather, fuck that mentality.
You are going through something really tough, and you are handling it admirably by addressing the issue head-on. That is not romanticizing mental illness. If anything, it is inspiration for others to recover from mental illness.
Romanticizing a mental illness is giving THE ILLNESS the allure or attraction of the forbidden/desirable— like “being broken is beautiful” or acting like a diagnosis is a status symbol or something. Romanticizing is distorting the truth to make mental illness seem romantic; telling it how you’ve experienced it is just honest. Sometimes it might be an ugly truth, and sometimes the truth is that we doubt recovery. But your experiences are what they are, and you have every right to share your lived experiences with people who care about you and/or on your own freakin’ blog.
There’s this shitty idea that only some people are supposed to talk about their experiences, only the ones who were “truly sick” and are now truly recovered and feel no complicated feelings about recovery. Which, although it’s good to hear from people who are 100% pro-recovery all the time, still serves to keep people in less black-and-white circumstances (aka 99.99% of people with mental illnesses) suffering in silence. AND, when we only hear one kind of story, we forget that our experiences still matter even if they don’t quite fit the cookie cutter mold.
Romanticizing mental illness AND romanticizing recovery are both bad, because they perpetuate an unrealistic idea of what mental illness is. If you are sharing your experiences, if you are being open/honest/frank about them, you are not romanticizing anything. You should probably tag/trigger warn posts that may be triggering, but beyond that don’t let anyone tell you that you should be quiet about your struggles with mental illness. You don’t owe your silence to anyone.
— Dan “Soupy” Campbell
Augenbling // by // Seeed
EVERYONE NEEDS TO WATCH THIS
You won’t always want to talk to people. That’s okay. When it’s late and you hear your friends talking in the next room, you don’t have to join them. You’re allowed your solitude. It makes company sweeter and it teaches you how to survive alone. You will need that skill.
In the winter, you’ll believe that nothing will ever grow again. You’re wrong. Every year, London looks like it’s on its last legs, wheezing through those last cold days in March. Every year, spring comes like an explosion and the city shakes off its sleep.
Mundane problems will get the better of you sometimes. Don’t worry. Try as you might, life cannot be an endless, beautiful, intense moment. Find comfort in money worries and late trains; they’re a welcome rest in between heartbreaks and breakdowns.
People will call you a cynic, a wry smile on their faces. Pay them no mind. You alone know that you are capable of a love greater than anything they can comprehend. You alone know that you are not willing to sell your identity and respect to the first smirking halfwit to pass by. It is not cynicism. It is reverence for your own vast and fathomless heart, and it makes sense only to love someone who understands that and is awed by it.
You will not always get what you want when you want it. Accept it. Your goals are not set in stone and you are not on a fixed trajectory. Sometimes, life will take its time and you will have to play the long, interminable game. Play it well and with as much grace as you can muster. Live at your own pace.
At night, you will occasionally wake up afraid, wanting to die. Don’t give in. Night plays its tricks, but you are not so easily fooled. Your mind will play its tricks, too. It will make you believe that you’re not who you are, but you must not give in. You take a breath and you tell yourself that you are here. That you always were.
— Practical Advice for Difficult Women (#20 - 9th December)
so I actually left the house once to go for a stroll and when I got back in I realised that I’d lost my mobile phone somewhere in the woods
never to be seen again
staying in bed forever noW GOOD NIGHT
Du bist nicht verloren
Du bist hier
it’s always selfie time when I’m on my dad’s laptop
shush it you’re making me cry ♥ thank you for this message, my love.
may your day be filled with reasons to smile. hugs, kisses and cake to you!
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.
— Kait Rokowski (A Good Day)
And I say things like
"no body contact before or after 6pm" and smile
And you’ll think it’s meant to be funny
when in reality I’m just so scared of your touch that the ‘No!’ that I want to scream at the top of my lungs drowns in the memories of the night he took me