you’re right you raised me to flinch, to grovel, to cry quietly, to mask pain, to swallow my words, to take rage out on myself. you raised me to cower, to respect authority without any reason, to live with your words riding in me.
you raised me wrong. i’m just reteaching myself how to be right. i’m sorry that doesn’t look like what you wanted it to. but i’m learning to love myself in the way parents were supposed to do.
„Depression isn’t feeling a little sad while you watch netflix in bed in your pjs
Depression isn’t a cute girl in a big sweater and messy bun giving you a small smile
Depression isn’t feeling hopeless until someone kisses your pain goodbye
Let me tell you about depression, from someone that actually has it. Depression is messy and gross. It’s not smudged mascara and cute girls crying. It’s grimy teeth and greasy hair because I haven’t managed to properly care for myself in days, weeks even. It’s not feeling a little down or tired at school. It’s the fact that I haven’t gone to school in over a week. It’s my future on a plate that I’m slowly letting drift away because I can’t pull myself out of bed anymore. It’s me starving because I can’t care enough to make food. It’s me laying in bed for hours, wondering how to die without putting in any effort. It isn’t a quirky picture of a girl in a dark room because she’s “different” I can have the lights on all fucking day, but the emptiness lingers. I can drown myself in the loneliness I feel as there are people right outside the fucking door. And it’s not because I’m different, it’s because I have an actual mental illness that makes me feel this way.
More than that though, depression ISN’t FEELING A LITTLE DOWN. It’s sitting there, feeling nothing and wishing, for the love of God to feel anything. But then when you do, the only thing you manage to feel correctly is pain and sadness and it’s overwheliming. Enough to send me into a panic attack. Enough to make me glad when the emptiness comes back. And the cycle continues. Over and over and over and over. It’s long and tiring and boring. There’s nothing interesting about being depressed because it’s a fucking boring cycle that seems endless. We all feel down sometimes, but when you’re down in your depression, it’s so fucking hard to get back up. Normal people have bad days and bounce back. Having depression is like every bad day drops you 20 more feet lower than rock bottom.
Depression is consuming and draining. I don’t have someone that can kiss the pain goodbye because all the kisses in the world won’t fucking cure this. Flowers don’t grow out of your scars and suicidal people aren’t angels waiting to go home. It isn’t pretty or poetic. The only thing that grows is the amount of scars on my arm. They aren’t pretty white lines that tell a beautiful story. They are horrible, jagged, puffy reminders of needing pain to cope with just being alive. We aren’t angels, we are sick. Mentally sick. My eyes aren’t “beautifully sad” they are sunken in and dark around the edges. There’s nothing beautiful about the noticeable dark bags or the blank stare as I can’t manage to even look like I have any emotion to what you’re saying to me. Cigarette smoke doesn’t create a beautiful fog that masks sadness. It is coughing your lungs out because you’re slowly killing yourself with a fucking stick of lung cancer. The smoke tastes bad and smells bad and only serves as a coping mechanism.
I am not a flower
or an angel
or a princess in search of prince charming
I am a mentally ill person. It isn’t fun or cute. Stop acting like this is a unique trend. Depression is ugly and it ruins your fucking life. There’s nothing poetic about that.”
honestly? rapists deserve nothing. not family, not friends, not clothes, not food, not shelter, not education, not health services, just nothing. nothing. nothing.
i’ll keep reblogging this until i stop getting pro-rapist comments on it.
