To the spiders in the ceiling corners: you’re keeping your end of the contract, love u honeys catch those tasty flies
To the spiders halfway down the wall and touchin my furniture: you’re on thin fucking ice babes
(via e-moms)
I am going to tell you about my pain.
I am going to write it down and never speak of it again.
I am going to to tell you about the years of hunger for destruction,
the years of falling to my knees with grief.
I am going to tell you about the girl who was asking to be saved,
in so many ways.
/
I’ll start at the beginning - I was so naive.
“No I’m fine. It wasn’t that bad. I am fine.”
But how do I tell them I was wrong. So wrong.
How do I tell them I am knees deep in this pain I can’t work through.
I am drowning in grief.
It starts out small - you think nothing of it.
Next thing, you are scared.
Of loud sounds. Of men. Of the darkness that surrounds.
I couldn’t leave the house past 6pm.
I couldn’t be alone.
I couldn’t dream without nightmares slipping in.
/
How do I tell them I was so wrong?
That I am in pain. Every. Single. Day.
That I can’t forget the moment he pushed inside of me.
It started off so small. How could I be so wrong.
How was I suppose to know my sadness would keep growing, spreading.
It started off so small, now I am stage 4.
My sadness is inoperable.
/
I have opened my wrists more times than I can count.
I have swallowed more pills than I can count.
I wake up in the hospital room and the doctor asks how many did I take.
One for every minute he touched me.
One for every time I’ve thought of it since.
One for every time I’ve had to hurt myself to get rid of the thought of him.
I tell them that I ran out of pills before I could finish counting.
I tell them I could swallow thousands of pills for him.
/
I sit in a locked ward with people I use to think were crazy.
I sit in a locked ward and accept that I am now the person people think are crazy.
I sit across the table from the doctor.
He asks “What lead you to this point?”
I tell him I came out of the womb screaming and I haven’t stopped.
I tell him about the man who didn’t even know my name.
The man who entered inside of me. The man. The man bought me here.
The doctors calls me fragile.
He calls me sensitive.
He calls me childhood abandoment.
He calls me major depressive disorder.
He calls me post traumatic stress disorder.
He calls me a lost case.
Hopeless. Helpless. Dead in a year.
I sat acoss from the doctor and told him about my pain.
He wrote it all down and told me he can’t help.
/
I sit across from my new psychiatrist.
He asks why I do this to myself.
I tell him I am an abandoned home.
I tell him I am trying to find a way out.
He tells me he knows I think I deserve this but I dont.
He tells me you don’t have to carve the pain into your body.
He tells me I don’t have to swallow all the pills to let people know I am in pain.
I tell him that I am bad. I am bad. I deserve this.
He tells me he thinks I still blame myself.
I don’t tell him he’s not wrong.
I don’t tell him he’s not wrong.
/
I tell him I am a girl.
Asking for help.
A girl who made hospital her second home.
A girl who finds comfort at the bottom of the swimming pool.
A girl who doesn’t know a way out of the darkness inside of her brain.
A girl who can’t forget the way a man broke into her home.
I am just a girl.
Asking for help.
Asking for someone to hold onto my pain.
Hold it in their hands till I can write it all down.
So I can close the book.
A girl just trying to find herself.
I am just a girl asking for a little help.
© h.g
(via unspokengrief)
Do you ever notice yourself getting bad again…like, you know you’re not doing work that needs to be done, you know you’re not cleaning, you know you’re not taking care of yourself…you know all the things you need to do to start trying to feel better. But you just can’t. And you’re left feeling like shit bc you thought you were getting better but here we are
(Source: alltheworld-willbeyours, via automatically)
