I think the moment I realised I am an adult was the same moment I realised being broken isn’t cute.
I always believed that men were entranced by mysterious, unfixable girls, whose sadness knew no bounds and whose eyes were fathoms deep. I was taught that mystery was alluring, and lacking natural beauty, I thought emotional distance would captivate the ones I wanted.
I was wrong. They didn’t want to fix me, make me feel whole again. They didn’t want to try and wear down my walls, they labelled me frigid and high maintenance.
Who’d have thought it? Movies lied to me.
11:50 pm • 19 August 2014 • 1 note
The Body is the superficial, the unnecessary, the irrelevant.
Seek the Heart and the Soul - the truth of emotion, and truth of self.
Express both through the Mind.
10:16 pm • 27 July 2014
I told myself, that’s what adults do.
I kept telling myself, I’m so immature, in how I deal with things that upset me. It simply will not do to throw a tantrum like a six year old every single time I’m disappointed, I told the mirror.
So I tried to deal with things the way I watched my parents deal with it.
My father shuts off - the air temperature drops, like the fog of silence over the room. You do not speak to my father when my father is angry. If you push too far, he roars like the Lion of his star sign. His fists curl up, but mercifully, are never used. After the roar, the rage rushes out of him, air out a balloon; pus from a wound; purged.
So, like my father, I purge; I throw my words into the air, into the internet, into anyone who’ll listen like grenades: I drink until I can barely see, then dance until all I can remember is the good times. I exercise until the sweat runs like rivers down my neck, off my nose, down my chest. I roar, I pant, I push and I scream; I purge.
My mother simply blocks it out. She snipes, she always could use sarcasm like a knife. Anything that irks her - I can see it now - she smiles, and files it away under “irritations” in her head.
Like my mother, I block it out. I try to, anyway; the daughter is a lesser form of the mother, and requires substance abuse to fully suppress her rage. So I bought another packet of cigarettes, and smoked them all up, trying to see my future in the ashes; 21st century trepanning, I suppose.
But neither of these routes work.
I look at the girl in the mirror. Green eyes. They always look green after I’ve cried; maybe it’s just the reason why surfacing.
She looks like shit. I tell her so. I tell her, this is what adults do.
But I don’t feel any better.
10:04 pm • 27 July 2014
I need to be able to vent my EDNOS thoughts because, right now, I feel too watched.
5:45 pm • 26 June 2014
I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to work or talk.
I want to be left alone.
5:41 pm • 26 June 2014
I have never looked good in my life.
8:11 pm • 25 June 2014
I don’t know, hang me up.
I don’t know, throw me out.
I don’t know, leave me be.
I don’t know, let me go.
3:15 pm • 15 June 2014
Times like these, I don’t need enemies
I’ve got six in my head and a monster in my bed
11:43 pm • 29 May 2014
I guess I just
11:35 pm • 28 May 2014 • 2 notes
I am out of sync with time. My mind does not seem to recognise it is not in the right time.
1:30 am • 11 May 2014 • 1 note