i have that telltale tummy ache,

the one that tells me i did it again.

i looked at something, read something,

remembered something..

my therapist tells me

i trigger myself on purpose.

that im more comfortable, when im

uncomfortable.

but i dont do this on purpose.

i dont have a choice.

Once i get that inch, that feeling,

The wanting. I want to feel. I want to hurt.

i guess this is my way of self harm.

this blog, these tags,

forcing my inner child to relive it.

over and over.

i cant stop.

even if i could,

would i?

to literally all of you who demand that victims need to forgive abusers

you don’t fucking realize that abuse never ever fucking stops

as long as the victim is in any contact with abuser, abuser will continue to invalidate, excuse, justify, gaslight, manipulate, lie, and do anything to keep getting away with abuse

so you’re asking the victims to forgive an ongoing abuse

which is an equivalent of walking to a person whose arm is being slowly cut off and telling them, hey, you have to forgive the person cutting your arm off, you’ll feel better.

while ignoring their bleeding wound and the knife sinking deeper into it, and helping the abuser cut it easier.

great. going.

and also, to those who have cut off contact? who the fuck are you to tell them when they’re supposed to feel forgiveness. Who the fuck are you to tell them they’re supposed to forgive at all. What the fuck gives you the nerve to imply forgiveness is good for them while they’re still walking with bleeding wounds on them. If and when they forgive is their. fucking. business.

Forgiveness is something that will happen on it’s own long after all the wounds have healed and any kind of danger is no longer present, but for some people, this will not happen within their entire lifetime. So shut the fuck up.

Sometimes I want to tell my mother, just so she knows how bad she failed me.

I'd ask her, do you know what Chicken is? Red Light, Green Light? Do you know the games kids play where they touch each other and wait for the other to flinch first?

Do you know what it means to be fourteen and have the boy sat next to you slide his hand up your thigh, waiting for you to react? Do you know what it means to know you'll be the one kicked out of class if you kick up a fuss? How about the one time you did, and the teacher told you that it was normal for teenagers to want to be frisky, but you needed to be responsible and keep it outside school?

Do you know what it means, mother, to have pictures taken of you without your consent? In changing rooms, and under bathroom stalls? To know people were spreading these pictures, and that too many people knew now what your twelve year old boobs looked like in a bra, and what you looked like with your underwear down? Do you know what it means to freak out whenever anyone aims a phone in your direction, to feel yourself becoming feral and attacking?

Do you know how it feels to drag yourself with your bare hands across a filthy bathroom floor, desperate to reach a locked door, and know you will not make it? To taste salt and grit on your tongue and want to vomit whenever you remember? To remember that your nails broke from your scrabbling, and there were marks on your wrists afterwards, and that you bled so much you were convinced this was your first period? That you didn't realise until months after that no, it wasn't? That you watched yourself walk out of that bathroom and know that you actually died there and your body has been rotting there ever since?

Do you know what it means for people to only want your pain, your suffering, your humiliation? That that is the only part of you they find sexy? Do you know what that does to a person? Do you know what it does to know that people sold pictures and videos of the worst moments of your life, and the buyers will know more about those moments than you ever will?

Do you know how sometimes I'd think about telling you, about you saving me, about me never having to return to that place again? Do you know that I'd cry myself to sleep sometimes begging anyone to protect me and knowing nobody would? Do you know I changed my mind because of the way you sighed when I brought up problems? Because of how stressed you were? Because I'd seen what happens when the tension snapped in you, and I never wanted to risk hearing the cruel things you could say about me being raped?

Oh, it would destroy you. I don't want to do that to you. But god. I wish I could tell you something. I wish I could let you know. I wish I could tell you how bad you failed me, so you could make it up to me now.

I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to beI just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be. I just 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱, 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂? want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protectrd. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be protected. I just want to be I just want to be I just want to be protected. I just want to be--

Getting abused in front of someone else is so embarrassing. It makes you feel so hopeless when the person who witnessed what happened doesn't do anything to help you. They just look away and pretend it didn't happen.

im trying to post about my final art project and tumblr is silencing me. /j

i'm ready to go

I feel like a scared little kid again

Harry Styles - falling

Original painting by Andrew Wyeth

dog teeth #79