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(Source: phillipxluong, via derpengrey)

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cryingaboutcollege:

*gets nervous over things i cant control*

*neglects things i can control*

(via serenepristine)

Filed under: #personal 
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(Source: kasukabe, via genzai)

Filed under: #bedevilled 
o "

Who created the notion that young girls
are so desperate for male attention
that we bring blades to the insides of our wrists
just so some guy will sweep in
and save us

who was the first person that sold the idea
that self-harm is just a disgusting form
of a short skirt: just like everyone dresses
how they do for someone else’s attention
and couldn’t possibly take action in regards
to their own desires and choices
we’re just poor dumb
deluded creatures who must truly think
our scars
are beautiful - who was it

because you were right.
I did do it out of want for love.

I did it because there was no love
inside of me, none at all, no love for this body
nor this life. I did it because I was so incredibly numb
at times I questioned if I was even alive.
I did it because I was addicted and
when you don’t love yourself yet, you can’t
see a single reason to keep from doing it.

I was certainly caught up in the idea
that someone would see, someone would ask about it.
I very much liked the notion
of someone finally liking me enough
to try and help - but then,
what’s so very wrong about not being strong enough
at fourteen years old
to battle a demon that is the only thing to make you feel
a little bit in control
what’s so wrong about needing a hand to hold
until you’re well enough
to walk on your own?

The only thing you got wrong
was the boy in this story. Never in my life
have I pictured Prince Charming and thought “Golly,
I sure hope that he saves me.” It could have been anybody. I
never wanted a romance to go along with it.
I didn’t need someone to kiss the scars, I just wanted
someone to tell me to stop when I could not stop myself.
I just wanted a friend. I just wanted someone, anyone
to be there for me when I needed it - but I never asked aloud.
I didn’t want to be a burden.

I have been so scared to be naked in front of people
since I was in middle school. What gave you the idea
I’m proud of these moments? Have you ever actually seen
someone else’s scars, unless it’s by accident? Because
the people I know who self-harm
will do anything in their power
to keep it hidden.

Why is everything a girl goes through
always made to be about men? Even when I’m
hurting myself, it’s about wanting their attention. Even
an action like taking every ounce of my self-hatred and
channeling it into a blade
is somehow translated into
“stop hurting yourself just to get laid.”

There are boys who cut too.
What will you say to them?
“I’m sorry, but your pain doesn’t count,
don’t you know girls only do this
to be lovely and broken.”
Maybe boys cut for the same reason other
people do too: they’re in pain and
they have no other way to grapple with emotion.
Maybe every time you tell a girl,
“You only do this for attention,” you’re telling
a young boy, “Don’t show how bad it is, just keep it in,”
you’re telling him,
“This is a thing only desperate little girls do,
never men.”

I battled this for years. It has always been
my fight, and mine alone. It has
nothing to do
with the boys and girls I have loved.

Destroy the idea that self-harm is just for attention, because the minute you put a label like that on it is when you start saying “Oh, that means we don’t have to help them.” Destroy the idea asking for help is a sign of weakness. It’s okay to need other people sometimes. It’s okay to look for people to love you if you have no one. It’s okay. There’s a reason therapy is a legitimate profession. Sometimes you’ll need other people to overcome things. Destroy the idea that young kids find beauty in depression. Destroy the idea that boys aren’t hurting. Destroy the idea that any girl ever has said “I’ll just hurt myself and he’ll love me” because
that’s never going to happen.

"
— quoted from My body is not an art museum I have never invited someone to look at the paintings and applaud me for dismantling myself into tiny little pieces. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)
Filed under: #poetry 
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digbicks:

Romanticisation of Mental Illness, Kelsey Weaver

(Source: Flickr / kelseyweaverphotography, via serenepristine)

Filed under: #personal 
o "

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is eight years old, she’s got pink cheeks that her grandmother calls chubby. She wants a second cookie but her aunt says “you’ll get huge if you keep eating.” She wants a dress and the woman in the changing room says “she’ll probably need a large in that.” She wants to have dessert and her waiter says “After all that dinner you just had? You must be really hungry!” and her parents laugh.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is eleven and she is picked second-to-last in gym class. She watches a cartoon and sees that everyone who is annoying is drawn with a big wide body, all sweaty and panting. At night she dreams she is swelling like the ocean over seabeds. When she wakes up, she skips school.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is thirteen and her friends are stick-thin ballerinas with valleys between their hipbones. She is instead developing the wide curves of her mother. She says she is thick but her friends argue that she’s “muscular” and for some reason this hurts worse than just admitting that she jiggles when she walks and she’ll never be a dancer. Eating seconds of anything feels like she’s breaking some unspoken rule. The word “indulgent” starts to go along with “food.”

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is fourteen and she has stopped drinking soda and juice because they bloat you. She always takes the stairs. She fidgets when she has to sit still. Whenever she goes out for ice cream, she leaves half at the bottom - but someone else always leaves more and she feels like she’s falling. She pretends to like salad more than she does. She feels eyes burrowing through her body while she eats lunch. Kate Moss tells her nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, but she just feels like she is wilting.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is fifteen the first time her father says “you’re getting gaunt.” She rolls her eyes. She eats one meal a day but thinks she stays the same size. Every time she picks up a brownie she thinks of the people she sees on t.v. and every time she has cake, she thinks of the one million magazine articles on restricting calories. She used to have no idea a flat stomach was supposed to be beautiful until she saw advice on how to achieve it. She cuts back on everything. She controls. They tell her she’s getting too thin but she doesn’t believe it.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is sixteen and tearing herself into shreds in order for a thigh gap big enough to hush the screams in her head. She doesn’t “indulge,” ever. She can’t go out with friends, they expect her to eat. She damns her sweet tooth directly to hell. It’s coffee for breakfast and tea for lunch and if there’s dance that evening, two cups of water and then maybe an apple. She lies all the time until she thinks the words will rot her teeth. She dreams about food when she sleeps. Her aunt begs her to eat anything, even just a small cookie. They say, “One bite won’t make you fat, will it, darling?”

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is seventeen and too sick to go to prom because she can’t stand up for very long. She thinks she wouldn’t look good in a dress anyway. Her nails are blue and not because they are painted. Her hair is too thin to do anything with. She’s tired all the time and always distracted. She once absently mentions the caloric value of grapes to the boy she is with and he looks at her like she’s gone insane and in that moment she realizes most people don’t have numbers constantly scrolling in their heads. She swallows hard and tries to figure out where it all went wrong, why more than a granola bar for a meal makes her feel sick, why she tastes disease and courts with death. She misses sleep. She misses being able to dream. She misses being herself instead of just being empty.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is twenty and writes poetry and is a healthy weight and still fights down the voices every single day. She puts food in her mouth and sometimes cries about it but more and more often feels good, feels balanced. Her cheeks are pink and they are chubby and soft and no longer growing slight fur. Her hair is long and it is beautiful. She still picks herself apart in the mirror, but she’s starting to get better about it. She wears the dress she likes even if it only fits her in a large and she doesn’t feel like a failure for it. She is falling in love with the fat on her hips.

She is eating out with friends and not worrying about finding the lowest calorie item on the menu when she hears a mother tell her four year old daughter “You can’t have ice cream, we just had dinner.
You don’t want to end up as a fat little girl.”

"
— quoted from Why do we constantly do this to our children? /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

(via serenepristine)

Filed under: #personal #prose 
o inkskinned:

“I don’t have any reason to feel sad anymore.”

inkskinned:

I don’t have any reason to feel sad anymore.”

(via inkskinned)

Filed under: #poetry #personal 
o "

An eating disorder is driving to a gas station in the midst of a blizzard and writing a bad check to buy a dozen stale doughnuts because they are being sold at the day-old discount price and you are ravenous because you have been starving yourself, again. Your car gets stuck in the middle of an intersection, your tires churn up wet snow, you’re going nowhere as you cram doughnuts in your mouth, sugar circling your lips and chin, granules of sticky sugar on the steering wheel, and you don’t care that there is oncoming traffic, the light is about to change, and the tires are spinning. All you care is about making it back to the apartment before your roommate gets off work, in time to stick the index finger of your right hand down your inflamed throat so doughnut pieces will heave their way up your esophagus and plummet into the toilet bowl.

Back at the apartment, your right hand is slick with saliva, mucus, and chunks of wet doughnut. Your eyes water and tears roll down your face and land in the toilet bowl, mixing with the doughnut remains. There is a splash-back effect as the doughnut pieces hit the water. Toilet water splashes your faces but you don’t care, because all you can think of are calories, fat grams, did I get it all out? Then you strip down, running your hands over the contour of your hips; you search for rib bones and shoulder blades, and you grab the loose skin of your abdomen in disgust.

"
— quoted from Purge: Rehab Diaries by Nicole Johns (via thechocolatebrigade)
Filed under: #personal #quote 
o "A little girl who was criticized or ignored or abused or stifled by an unloving mother becomes an adult who tells herself she’ll never be good enough or lovable enough, never smart or pretty or acceptable enough to deserve success and happiness. Because if you really were worth of respect and affection, a voice inside whispers, your mother would’ve given them to you."
— quoted from Mothers Who Can’t Love: A Healing Guide for Daughters by Susan Forward, Donna Frazier Glynn (via thechocolatebrigade)
Filed under: #personal #quote 
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lehroi:

Jenny Holzer

'Truisms', 1984.

Like other artists of her generation, Holzer turned to the strategies of the mass media and advertising in her work. In the late 1970s, she devised nearly 300 aphorisms or slogans, which play on commonly held truths and clichés. Initially, the Truisms were infiltrated into the public arena via stickers, T-shirts and posters. Later, Holzer started using electronic displays. In 1982 she blazed these messages across a giant advertising hoarding in Times Square, New York. The Truisms are deliberately challenging, presenting a spectrum of often-contradictory opinions. Holzer hoped they would sharpen people’s awareness of the ‘usual baloney they are fed’ in daily life.

(Source: jemeos, via darklynoon)

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