my mother taught me not to place all of my happiness in someone because they’ll take it with them when they leave and I’ll be alone and broken and miserable again.
If I ever have a daughter I’m going to teach her not to place all of her happiness in that boy with pretty eyes who grabs her waist and makes her feel alive again. Not because he’ll steal all the happiness she had left in her when he drops her for the girl who just moved down the street with blonde hair down to her ass who speaks as if she knows exactly where to kiss him, but because when you let a boy wipe away all your tears, they’ll burn into his hands. When you let him kiss your scars, he’ll taste them on his tongue and no amount of alcohol will wash the flavor of sadness out of his mouth. When you ask him to fix you, his breathing will get heavy and his hands will start to shake when he realizes that some of your pieces are missing, so he’ll tear himself apart trying to find ways to make you whole again, but now he’s broken too. When you’re drowning on one of those nights when things get really bad, when the waves are grabbing at your ankles and crashing against your body as hard as you can and your lungs are caving in on themselves, he’ll jump in and save you, but the waves will pull him under too.
Someone once told me that human beings have three dimensions: how you see yourself, how others see you, and how you want others to see you. The closer the distance between the three dimensions, the more at peace you are and the more stable you become.
Sometimes you meet someone, and it’s so clear that the two of you, on some level belong together. As lovers, or as friends, or as family, or as something entirely different. You just work, whether you understand one another or you’re in love or you’re partners in crime. You meet these people throughout your life, out of nowhere, under the strangest circumstances, and they help you feel alive. I don’t know if that makes me believe in coincidence, or fate, or sheer blind luck, but it definitely makes me believe in something.
Until we have seen someone’s darkness, we don’t really know who they are. Until we have forgiven someone’s darkness, we don’t really know what love is.
Don’t be so vain to think that you ruined me,
that you wrecked me,
I am the only one who has the power to do that.
I loved you, and I ruined myself,And I will keep doing so for as long as I am breathing.
I wrecked myself,
I destroyed myself.
If your suicidal and still alive, I’m so fucking proud of you.
If your suffering from an eating disorder and still eating, I’m so fucking proud of you.
If your suffering from a mental illness and your fighting, I’m so. Fucking. Proud. Of. You.
Depression is a disorder of mood, so mysteriously painful and elusive in the way it becomes known to the self—to the mediating intellect—as to verge close to being beyond description. It thus remains nearly incomprehensible to those who have not experienced it in its extreme mode.