Strong. Strong. Strong. Strong. Strong. Strong. I hate that word. I hate the way it sounds coming out of people’s mouths when they tell me to be it. I hate the way I spit it out as I’m picking myself off the floor, begging myself to become the definition do the overused word. I hate the way society has twisted the definition. I hate the way that being strong is considered to be pasting a glamorous smile on your face, how it’s thought of as pretending and ignoring your mind as it screams for help. I hate how I know you really are stronger to ask for help, but I’m too terrified to ask. I hate how some people would rather slice their skin or hang themselves than ask and be considered weak. I hate the word strong. I hate it because of what it’s done to the best of us.
Button Poetry. I highly recommend them. They are easily accessible on tumblr, youtube, or if you just search for them on google. They use strong language and discuss mature topics, but if you ever want to know what cute people to the core, find someone who can describe something that you can almost slightly relate to using beautiful, legato, flows of words then I suggest you look them up.
They never tell you when you’re young, naive and impatient to grow up that it could mean rape, panic attacks, psychologists, heartbreak, and lies.
They don’t tell you as your figure comes in that you get noticed by boys all around and have to learn to watch your back so you don’t become another rape victim, upping the ever climbing statistics.
They don’t mention that you will be stabbed in the back hundreds of times before finally finding someone who will help you watch it instead.
They never tell you that finding, “the one” means enduring heartbreak after heartbreak, shattering your trust in the majority of humans.
They don’t tell little girls that, “becoming a woman” means bleeding through your favorite underwear, never ending cramps, annoying bloatedness, and complicated moodiness.
They forget to mention that driving is fake freedom, given only to a limited few, who are automatically not to be trusted.
They forget to inform you that sometimes coping means slicing, thinking sometimes leads to thoughts of ropes and pills, or that the days never seem to end.
So honey, don’t try to grow up. It’s not what they tell you.
I am a down pour. You know the kind. The ones where you look out your window and it doesn’t look like anything is happening, but you look at the puddles, or go outside, or even focus on the sky for a moment and realize it’s pouring. I am that rain. The one who can go unnoticed, but still does so much damage. The one that is so loved and so hated. I am a breezy, chilly, nearly unnoticeable, painful, screaming, downpour.
Hello, darkness, my old friend.
Silence is darkness, darkness of the ears. But there is no absolute silence. When I stood in an anechoic chamber, all ambient noise sucked out as by a sponge, the roar of blood filled my ears: always there, never noticed before. In 2001: A Space Odyssey, space is silent, as a vaccum is, but what you hear is the breathing of the astronaut. Silence is irrelevant if there are no ears to hear. If there are ears, there is blood and breath.
Silence is John Cage’s 4´33˝. For four minutes and thirty-three seconds the piano does not play. During that time there is silence. Silence of the piano. But the audience breathes, shifts, rustles; the air conditioning hums; cars pass on the street outside. You hear it. It is what you hear, what you had ignored before. The daily blood and breath in the…
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My parents are incredibly service minded. My father is a doctor and my mother has spent the majority of her life trying to figure out new and different ways to help others. I’m all for service, but one of the biggest problems with having siblings who struggle with reading and having them be preoccupied all of the time with service means that sometimes they don’t see the pain that their own daughter is exhibiting. Sometimes they don’t notice that the air around me is toxic, destroying my lungs with every breath. They didn’t notice when I started cutting, and sometimes they just look over me. It’s not that they don’t care or pay attention to me, because they do. They are great people and incredible parents, but it’s easier sometimes for them to overlook the pain. I don’t know how to handle myself. My grades are slipping, teachers are harassing me, and honestly..I don’t care. They have yet to notice that as well..
I’m going to begin this post by saying that this is my personal opinion FOR ME if you take anti depressants or your doctor recommends it or whatever at the very least try them. I am not trying to discourage people from using them, I’m just putting my reality out there.
You don’t get to change the color of your eyes, not really at least, right? Your DNA, your genes decide what color your eyes are, not you or anyone else for that matter. The same is true with depression. You don’t get to choose, just like Timmy (for lack of a name..not that Timmy is a bad name) didn’t choose to have brown eyes. So let’s say there is this lovely new pill out that allows you to change the color of your eyes for as long as you are taking it. At first maybe you look in the mirror and feel perhaps hopeful because that girl you like will just have to love you now because you have lovely, crystal, blue eyes. Then when your parents, friends, family, and Lisa (The girl Timmy wishes was his girl) see your new look they love it. They praise it and are so excited, but there’s just one problem. You don’t even feel like you have crystal, blue eyes. You feel like your eyes are browner than ever. When you look into the mirror you see a boy with even darker brown eyes. It isn’t working for YOU. You tell everyone that you think you are going to stop taking them, but when you tell them, they all panic and protest saying you look better than ever so that must mean that you are doing better than ever. They don’t understand and honestly, how could they? They haven’t been trying to have a different eye color. How could they possibly understand? All they see is what they like and so they force you into taking it. You can’t do anything now. Everything is ruined. No one understands and you’re still being forced to pretend. Only those around you win while you are more miserable than ever. That is how my antidepressants make me feel. They don’t help me, they only hurt me.
Once again. I know that antidepressants work for a lot of people. I know that there are other antidepressants out there that may work for me. I’m just stuck right now and this post is kind of my way of dealing with it. Don’t stop taking your medication if it’s working for you! -Unless you’re addicted then you should probably get some help and talk to someone. Seriously. Pill addiction isn’t nothing. If you think you’re addicted, speak up. Thank you for your oh so precious time.