adhdandcaffeine
unmedicated
28 | She/they | Sapphic Ace |
Treating ADHD and depression with caffeine
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koijikido
Koiji Kido⭐
billoddity
billy
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Tights
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Fleur&Décor
alovelydesolation
A Lovely Desolation
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suddenly childhood ended and now i am supposed to know how to live
Franz Wright Entry In An Unknown Hand / Elena Ferrante (tr. Ann Goldstein) Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay (via @luthienne) / Jenny Zhang How It Feels / Anna Kamienska Astonishments / unknown / Gabrielle Bates & Jennifer S. Cheng So We Must Meet Apart / W. Todd Kaneko The Day After / image; SZA Blind / Ethel Cain Dog Days / @darkerthanerebus / pinterest
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You aren’t coming back, and someday I’ll stop hoping you will.
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will you be enough for her, though. little slip child. you hated every time you had to scream to be heard, so you stopped screaming. it feels so fucking demeaning, 16 and shivering, saying please! father! look at me! and having him say in a minute sweetie.
online they're back to making fun of self-harm scars. isn't that funny. we have dropped the silver pretense of empathy and are walking around without any shred of humanity.
are you still shouting? how can anybody love you, then, siren. error signal. your voice so quiet and desperate. nobody is going to help you, stop begging. how can anybody actually look down at you without squashing you flat. oh, darling. you once bit into the back of your hand to stop from crying out, and discovered that it felt too dramatic for repeating.
people like you aren't supposed to cry, because you are too much. you have never meant to, but you take the air out of a room just by walking in. other people can take up room like a sunbeam. you blurt out all your wickedness in oilslicks, everyone can feel it. you slosh yourself over their hands and demand their flinch. you are a bone stuck in the throat.
be more beautiful, more perfect. if you can earn it, they won't abhor you. they might even tolerate you, if you turn the right way and never stand up straight.
but love? her life is a silver fish, a cat paw. your life is a long, thin, impossible desire - angry like a blade. your life is a crack in the floortile. you cannot bring your rotted fruit heart into the church of her hands. you will ruin her. you will overtake everything good for her.
or worse - you will have to beg her look at me. and that moment of desperation will ruin you forever. completely.
deleted scene from body's a bad monster, 9.24.2024
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Is there another life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be, we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.
- John Keats
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Book: The Pain of Healing by Samantha Camargo on amazon 💛
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Hummingbird
Messengers of happiness
Healers of the sick
Fierce, loyal, tenacious
That was you.
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listen to me. listen. your actual job in life, and it sucks that your 5th grader teacher didnt explain this adequately enough, is to ask for help when you need it and to accept charity when it would take a weight from your shoulders. Otherwise you end up like Sisyphus- or even worse, Walter White
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me to my younger self: you have never done anything wrong in your entire life, and I love you
my younger self: but-
me: YOU DID NOTHING WRONG YOU HEAR ME, YOU WERE A CHILD THEY LIED TO YOU
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The all-consuming permanence of death will remind you that no contingency is absolute. To survive is to regret and to wonder.
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When I was in middle school, I tried to learn how to crochet. I knew how to knit already, so I figured ‘how hard could it be’ and used my Christmas money on a brand new set of aluminum hooks and a how-to book.
To say it was difficult was an understatement. I spent hours pouring over my book, begging to gain some inkling of understanding from what felt like incomprehensible runes. My reward? One lopsided trapezoid of lumpy fabric and a resolve to never pick up a crochet hook again.
And so life went on, I finished middle school and high school without giving crochet so much as a second glance. In college, I read about how crochet couldn’t be replicated by a machine, it was unique in a way that knitting and many other fiber arts weren’t.
For Christmas last year, my girlfriend gave me what I now consider to be my most prized possession: a crocheted plush of my favorite pokemon. I raved over her skills and, since she never learned how to knit, we decided to have a yarn date at some point and teach each other our respective skills.
We never did get around to that yarn date. She passed a few months after our declaration, leaving me to inherit what was left of her yarn.
Nearly a decade after my initial attempt, I got ready for the toughest battle of my life. My weapons? One skein of yarn, a YouTube video, and a crochet hook that I had somehow never gotten rid of.
I slowly made my way through the video, redoing my work a couple times until I was satisfied with my product: a small, slightly misshapen rectangle.
I looked at my pristinely-made pokemon plush with hope for the first time in months and thought to myself, ‘maybe crocheting isn’t the hardest thing in the world, maybe you were just 12.’
Maybe this isn’t the hardest thing in the world. Maybe I’m just 21.
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grief is so crazy like what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. does she know i loved her. i miss her so much. i catch myself doing things she used to do. i wish i could call her. i miss her so much. i do a crossword puzzle. i cry while washing the dishes. does she know i loved her? my heart feels like a hummingbird. i miss her so much. what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. what if i forget.
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was telling my therapist how worried and anxious i am about my loved one’s funeral this weekend and i told her that i’m doing my best to brace myself because i know it’ll be really overwhelming and really hard. and so gently, she said, “i think you’re forgetting that the funeral is for you. your feelings need to be there. grieving with others is crucial in the healing process.” and at the end of the session she added, “may the memorial service grant you whatever you and your loved ones need from it,” and really love that sentiment. so i’ll pay it forward.
may today grant you whatever you need from it.
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My heart is absolutely aching. Having to explain death to children... Rehashing the wound right back open
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Hanif Abdurraqib, A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance
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I remember the day you came to school in your new car. You were glowing with excitement and pride that you had gotten the straight A's, and finally got your mustang. I knew you could do it, I was proud of you too.
I've lost so many good friends to suicide, and watching what all of their parents went through. Our parents...
It broke my heart in two the day I got the call. It broke my heart again when I went to work for your dad a few years later. He missed you so much, and I could see it in his eyes when he looked at me. And again, on the anniversary of your death, when I was the only one in the room who understood even a fraction of the pain he was going through.
My heart absolutely shattered the day I knocked on the door and your dad cried in his office when we had to erase your drawings and signature from his whiteboard.
I hugged him as he told me about the memorial they had built for you. I have yet to visit it, but I sent flowers on your birthday. A part of me died with you when you took your last breath.
I wish you would have let us share your pain with you. Now we have to share all of the pain without you.
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Bianca Stone, from What Is Otherwise Infinite: Poems; “Other Wound”
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