I Related A Lot To Your Post About Not Being Able To Listen To A Band. Drinking Wine And Listening To

childhood trauma culture is constantly seeking validation because no matter how many times it is confirmed that you were abused, you can’t help but feel like a fake because others have had it “worse” than you or the abuse wasn’t “bad” enough

why limit yourself between choosing between a pretty feminine aesthetic or a dark one? if persephone can be the goddess of spring & queen of the underworld at the same time so can you

you claim to be holy and I know damn well that you aren’t but I’m so lonely that I will take the wine and I’ll take the bread. drink it all down, say I’m full of love. when I find my own wrists stapled to a cross, I will have no one to blame but myself.

JAMEELA JAMIL by Chantal Anderson for The New York Times (2019)

Sweet and delicate

“Sure I loved him - too much. And he loved me, only not enough. I just want someone who thinks I’m number one in his life. I’m not willing to accept emotional scraps anymore.”

— Amy Tan (via purplebuddhaquotes)

Trigger warning:

I tried to end my life exactly a year ago today. I came dangerously close to dying, spent weeks in a hospital. my life completely changed. this morning I woke up early to a quiet world, save for some birds outside my window. I saw the night change to dusk turn to morning and couldn’t help but remember how I would’ve missed something so wonderful if I died. how I wouldn’t have seen the flashes of orange and gold and honey swirl and change in the sky. how the endless black turned to sunshine. how depression didn’t win.

coffee, the sunrise and the buildings awash in the light of a new morning all around me. how lovely is it to be alive. to experience all this busyness and splendour. how the clouds whisper good morning and the heavens themselves shine through each crack in the sky. how the sun calls my body to wake. how the birds tell me today is a new day and aren’t there just endless possibilities. the promise of a new sunrise makes me so glad I’m still alive.

for someone that feels empty a lot of the time, I’m sure able to give and give and give. it’s my nastiest and most damaging habit. maybe that’s why I have such a fascination with sandcastles and other temporary things, the way I commit all my time to a couple of fleeting moments. strange that I can always feel the storm before it hits, the way the air sticks to my body like ghosts. don’t I lose love like eyelashes. don’t I hold love like a hoarder. this little light lady is all smoke and no flame.

Lover, I know I’m such an excessive woman. I bleed so many emotions, each as destructive as the last. I breathe in love and exhale anxiety, infecting everything around me with paranoia and insecurity. I bleed scarlet angry and drink bluesy sadness, so much pain and turmoil, so much misplaced passion.

It must be so overwhelming to be mine, must be like loving a charred forest that doesn’t know how to trust the sun again, mistakes warmth for destruction. Lover, please leave if you find yourself crumbling under the weight of all that has broken me. I know I’m too much and that I’ve painted the inside of your heart in splatters of ugly colours, regurgitated trauma.

But you say no. You tell my ghosts that if they’re staying, then that they’d better make room. You hold me until I am strong enough to walk again, kiss me until all the loss tastes like strength. Tell me that the inside of your heart is a masterpiece now, all those colours look so pretty. You hold up a mirror to it and say look, how can all this look anything less but human.

A love so unconditional, so relentless in its support. How lucky I am, lover, to call you my own.

Hozier, “As It Was”, Wasteland, Baby!