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teenagehipst3r
itseasey reblogged
1. Gray. No matter how bright it is, no matter what day of the week it is, no matter the season or the cloud cover, your entire world becomes tinted a couple shades darker. Everything becomes a little duller, you feel a little bit less. And then this gray encroaches on you, spreading its decrepit tendrils over every morsel of your life and what was once just a shade or two dampened, fades further and further until the color spectrum of your life looks like a Charlie Chaplin film except nothing you do is funny.
2. Food will lose its taste. You used to come home from long exhausting days, or escape for a weekend from school or work, to a steaming plate of your favorite foods your mother makes. (This varies from person to person, from curried rice and spiced eggplant to the cheesiest macaroni to fajita chicken and beans etc. etc. etc.) Except now you find that the gray has even settled onto your taste buds, metastasized like a cancer on your tongue and everything is bland. Your mother looks at you and worries because you have lost ten pounds in two weeks and you tell her you’ve been eating… and it’s kind of true except four whole bagels in an entire seven days can’t really count as food but it’s the only thing you can keep down as the acids bubble up against the inner linings of your stomach,
3. Forget sleep. Just forget it. Your eyelids will swallow days and nights and the amount of fatigue that you jam pack into the bruise colored bags under your eyes would not pass the weight limit for baggage at international airports. You used to dream of flying, a lot, with your arms spread out behind you tasting the sweet freedom. Now you put your head on your wrinkled pillow, shut your aching eyes and beg God, or something, anything, that you’ll dream, even if it happens to turn out to be a fucking nightmare. You’ll even miss the times you had nightmares: ghosts and demons chasing you through rows and rows of cracked, decaying headstones, a room where you are completely alone and everything is dark, a snowstorm in which your car skids and the entire progression of the nightmare is your car spinning, forever.
4. Crying never felt so regular before. You drink at least four ice-mountain bottles worth of water a day because over the course of a day you probably cry out half of it. The doctors says you should maybe pee seven to eight times a day but instead your daily routine is based off of how much liquid comes dripping from your eyes; five minutes after breakfast, a quick cry between classes, a solid ten minute session before lunch, your clock is based off your sadness. Your chest is always hurting from how hard you heave, you swear that your bones are part tectonic and your plates keep slipping; your eyes are constantly making new oceans; this is a world you never wanted to be a part of.
5. There will be an unspoken strain on all your relationships. You’ve always had a support system of friends, families, maybe even a lover (or perhaps you didn’t, but let’s assume that you do because honestly no one is ever alone) but your pride swallows your pain, pushes it back to the pink gloss of your throat, just far enough so that you can manage not to tell them. But you don’t have to tell them. In rooms filled to the brim with kids with bottlenecks or beer cans glued to their lips, bodies floating from too much smoke in the lungs, you lean against a wall covered in ‘paintings’—comprised of haphazard strokes, mismatched colors, oblong and obtuse shapes all the brain-children from one of the residents who prefers their mushrooms not on pizza—while half-heartedly gesticulating along to an embarrassingly bland conversation, a freshman-homecoming-photo-with-your-date-so-your-mom-has-evidence-that-you-can-attract-people smile firmly slapped on your face. Your friends do not need to ask you if you are alright, they know. And your parents do, too. Your mother cries once in a while, not in front of you, but she will tell you this later. One day she’ll confront you about it, whether it’s driving to Wal-Mart to get groceries or during breakfast on a Sunday, and despite you saying that you’re fine, she knows. She carried you in her stomach for the good part of a year. She knows. Sometime later that night you will hear it, no matter where you are in the world, you will hear the soft clinks and clanks as your mother’s heart is disassembled, carefully, from knowing that her baby couldn’t admit to their own pain.
6. Eventually you will admit to your own pain, at least to yourself, and it will not be beautiful. It will be an ugly mess of something. Maybe it’s not the classic razors to the wrists or stomach, but inserting paperclips through the skin of your thighs until the crimson leaks slow like a geyser too old to burst with it’s youthful gusto. Maybe it won’t come to a suicide attempt, but it might. It might end up with you and your head in a bathtub while your brother and your friends are playing N64 in the loft, the lot of them only rushing in to check when you resurface and scream after realizing how stupid it was to think you could make yourself stop breathing. And as your lungs churn out the little bits of bathwater you swallowed, your lips try to throw together a meager attempt at an excuse, urging them it wasn’t for the attention but of course it was somewhat for the attention because just being alive means asking the universe for attention. So after that you try to channel it in different, ‘better’ ways: binge-eating oreos and doritos, running until your muscles forget they are muscles, pirating the opening minute of every recorded speech Bill Clinton ever gave, investing in playing poker on facebook, writing shitty poetry, jazz ballet classes; you will find something, but you will still feel the pain.
7. Your motivation vanishes. The little victories will start to mean so much more. You used to be an A or B student, and you still are, but it requires an Atlas amount of effort to hold the same standards. Words seem to deconstruct themselves in the middle of reading as your brain wanders off. You’ll go back and forth between eating regularly and missing meals because just the thought of cooking an egg seems like curling a 50-pound dumbbell. Just rolling out of your unkempt bed onto your grimy bedroom floor is a gold-star for the week. Even the things you once had a burning passion for seem monotonous and mundane, and that’s when you know it’s getting really bad. Because suddenly you’re not living in the moment, you’re swimming the future too and you can see. You can see it all: crumbling buildings, cracked sidewalks, foliage overturning the signs of progress. Then you snap back to the moment, afraid, because if things are so dry and worthless now, you worry that it might only get worse, that you might not care about doing anything in the future, that you might not care about living at all.
"A Detailed List Of The Different Ways Mental Illnesses Will Fuck Up Your Life" - Nishat Ahmed (via sickwithsyllables)
itseasey reblogged
Source: samisoffthewall.co.uk
If someone were to die at the age of 63 after a lifelong battle with MS or Sickle Cell, we’d all say they were a “fighter” or an “inspiration.” But when someone dies after a lifelong battle with severe mental illness and drug addiction, we say it was a tragedy and tell everyone “don’t be like him, please seek help.” That’s bullshit. Robin Williams sought help his entire life. He saw a psychiatrist. He quit drinking. He went to rehab. He did this for decades. That’s HOW he made it to 63. For some people, 63 is a fucking miracle. I know several people who didn’t make it past 23 and I’d do anything to have 40 more years with them.
One of the more helpful and insightful things I’ve seen about depression/suicide in the last couple of days.
(via mysweetetc)
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Source: do-not-touch-my-food
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Source: do-not-touch-my-food
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jonnylongshlong-deactivated2013
Source: jonnylongshlong
itseasey reblogged
Leeloo decided to sit next to me at the Vet. It was the first time she sat in an actual chair like this! I think she was trying to back up as far away from the door to the back as possible!
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aliwav
This is evil
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do-not-touch-my-food
Source: do-not-touch-my-food
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red--raven-deactivated20180425
itseasey reblogged
