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(tell me how to say no to this.)

@recklessdarling / recklessdarling.tumblr.com

kitt. australia. perpetually going elsewhere. sometimes a storm in a teacup. forever an ocean child with flowers in her hair.
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lucytara
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darshanasuresh
We are two girls in love and together we look like a war cry. When our hands touch we’re picking up swords or maybe we’re picking up guns.The setting hardly matters. It’s the same story put on repeat. When you lock your fingers with mine we hear their weapons click. When we kiss we’re planting grenades in ourselves.They want us to blow up but they don’t say it. When you touch me like I’m the tenderness in your lungs we’re a protest, a riot, a plea. But I don’t want to be on a battlefield. I just want to be in love - and they should not mean the same thing.

Darshana Suresh, “our love is a revolution”  (via diana–prince)

Source: titanswrite
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punkybroodster
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brutereason
Emotional labor is often invisible to men because a lot of it happens out of their sight. Emotional labor is when my friends and I carefully coordinate to make sure that nobody who’s invited to the party has drama with anyone else at the party, and then everyone comes and has a great time and has no idea how much thought went into it. Emotional labor is when I have to cope, again, with the distress I feel at having to clean myself in a dirty bathroom or cook my food in a dirty kitchen because my male roommate didn’t think it was important to clean up his messes. Emotional labor is having to start the 100th conversation with my male roommate about how I need my living space to be cleaner. Emotional labor is reminding my male roommate the next day that he agreed to clean up his mess but still hasn’t. Emotional labor is reassuring him that it’s okay, I’m not mad, I understand that he’s had a very busy stressful week. Emotional labor is not telling him that I’ve had a very busy stressful week, too, and his fucking mess made it even worse. Emotional labor is reassuring my partner over and over that yes, I love him, yes, I find him attractive, yes, I truly want to be with him, because he will not do the work of developing his self-esteem and relies on me to bandage those constantly-reopening wounds. Emotional labor is letting my partner know that I didn’t like what he did sexually last night, because he never asked me first if I wanted to do that. Emotional labor is reassuring him that, no, it’s okay, I’m not mad, I just wanted him to know for next time, yes, of course I love him, no, this doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to him, I’m just not interested in that sort of sex. Emotional labor is not being able to rely on him to reassure me that it’s not my fault that I didn’t like the sex, because this conversation has turned into my reassuring him, again. Emotional labor is when my friend messages me once every few weeks with multiple paragraphs about his life, which I listen to and empathize with. Afterwards, he thanks me for being “such a good listener.” He asks how my life has been, and I say, “Well, not bad, but school has been so stressful lately…” He says, “Oh, that sucks! Well, anyway, I’d better get to bed, but thanks again for listening!” Emotional labor is when my friend messages me and, with no trigger warning and barely any greeting, launches into a story involving self-harm or suicide or something else of that sort because “you know about this stuff.” Emotional labor was almost all of my male friends in high school IMing me to talk about how the girls all go for the assholes. Emotional labor is when my partners decide they don’t want to be in a relationship with me anymore, but rather than directly communicating this to me, they start ignoring me or being mean for weeks until I have to ask what’s going on, hear that “I guess I’m just not into you anymore,” and then have to be the one to suggest breaking up. For extra points, then I have to comfort them about the breakup. Emotional labor is setting the same boundary over and over, and every time he says, “I’m sorry, I know you already told me this, I guess I’d just forgotten.” Emotional labor is being asked to completely explain and justify my boundaries. “I mean, that’s totally valid and I will obviously respect that, I just really want to understand, you know?” Emotional labor is hiding the symptoms of mental illness, pretending my tears are from allergies, laughing too loudly at his jokes, not because I’m just in principle unwilling to open up about it, but because I know that he can’t deal with my mental illness and that I’ll just end up having to comfort him because my pain is too much for him to bear. Emotional labor is managing my male partners’ feelings around how often we have sex, and soothing their disappointment when they expected to have sex (even though I never said we would) and then didn’t, and explaining why I didn’t want to have sex this time, and making sure we “at least cuddle a little before bed” even though after all of this, to be quite honest, the last thing I fucking want is to touch him.

Emotional Labor: What It Is and How To Do It (via brutereason)

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popcornbutterfly
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writingsforwinter

How to Explain Your Anxiety to Someone

Say sorry, I can’t. It doesn’t make sense.

It’s like the feeling of walking down the stairs with missing steps, or having your life flash before your eyes all the time - even when you’re not dying. It’s me, wondering if you’ll never speak to me again after this conversation.

Say have you ever seen a horror movie? Not the ones with blood and gore, or the ones where the stereotypically weak female actress gets left behind with the murderer and a hammer. The ones where the entire family’s house is invaded by strangers, where every second is the second between this life and the afterlife. The ones with jump scares. Say, I’m terrified most of the rest of my life will be a jump scare. That my life is a movie theater for the time being and I’m so scared you have to sit next to me during it.

There will always be the people who get it, and the people who don’t. There will always be the people who take one look at you when you try to explain and think irrational, out of control, naive, silly. Childish. But then there are the people who will understand, who will realize - Oh, this is just a survival mechanism.

And the first people will be the ones who push you down those stairs with the missing steps. And the second people who will be the ones who lead you to another staircase.

And one day you’ll wake up, and get to the bottom of the stairs. And you’ll think somebody fixed the steps, because you didn’t notice the gap where some of the steps were missing.

But the gaps will still be there. You’ll just have learned how to step over them.

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mandatorywhimsy

I’m literally ripping up cardboard into tiny pieces so the actor has something on the floor to sweep up. Because she can’t …. Pretend?

The crazy things we do as stage managers never ceases to amaze me.

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stagemanagerssaygo

I had another SM tell me the actor couldn’t pretend to plug in a lamp into the wall, so during the scene she had to crouch down with the end of an extension cord, even with the “wall,” so the actor had somewhere to plug in the lamp.

#no but honestly why is this my life
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lgbtlaughs
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daantaat
“Then the realization that so much had happened after that meeting made her feel incredibly lucky suddenly. It was so easy for a man and woman to find each other, to find someone who would do, but for her to have found Carol– […].” Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt
#books to read
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staceycathryn
me: i'd love to be in a relationship
*is shown any kind of affection*
me: yikes yikes yikes yikes yikes yik
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