The thing that sucks about mental illness is that if you aren’t depressed enough, suicidal enough, bad enough, nobody cares. Nobody cares until you reach their standard, and that standard is when your problem is bad enough to effect them
The amount of people who can relate to this makes me equally incredibly sad and immensely angry
My parents warned me about drugs in little baggies but nobody warned me about the addiction that came in the form of TV Shows, books, and movies. The addiction that makes you crave for well-written works that make your heart race, keep you hot and bothered, and, more often than not, break your heart. The addiction that keeps you up ‘til the wee hours of the morning because you keep telling yourself, “just one more”. No one gives you a heads up. You just start to obsess over fictional characters and their love stories. They don’t call them hallucinations, they call them “headcanons”. I didn’t know it was going to, simultaneously, make my life and also destroy it.
i wanna lie on the floor and not think for a month or two.
Sometimes when you meet someone, there’s a click. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I believe in that click.
i don’t want to date any boys i just want to make them all wish they were dating me
isn’t it weird that we pay money to see other human beings?
Are you talking about prostitution, the movies, or airplane tickets?
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.