01: Your current relationship, if single discuss how single life is.
02: Where you’d like to be in 10 years.
03: Your views on drugs and alcohol.
04: Your views on religion.
05: A time you thought about ending your own life.
06: Write 30 interesting facts about yourself.
07: Your zodiac sign and if you think it fits your personality.
08: A moment you felt the most satisfied with your life.
09: How you hope your future will be like.
10: Discuss your first love and first kiss.
11: Put your ipod on shuffle and write 10 songs that pop up.
12: Bullet your whole day.
13: Somewhere you’d like to move or visit.
14: Your earliest memory.
15: Your favorite tumblrs.
16: Your views on mainstream music.
17: Your highs and lows of this past year.
18: Your beliefs.
19: Disrespecting your parents.
20: How important you think education is.
21: One of your favorite shows.
22: How have you changed in the past 2 years?
23: Give pictures of 5 guys who are famous who you find attractive.
24: Your favorite movie and what it’s about.
25: Someone who fascinates you and why.
26: What kind of person attracts you.
27: A problem that you have had.
28: Something that you miss.
29: Goals for the next 30 days.
30: Your highs and lows of this month.
1:30 pm 167,792 notes
— Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard (via indelible-words)
9:34 am 8 notes
I am the unfortunate epitome of many tragedies that have been put back together by people who assumed they were doing the right thing.
When melancholia sinks in, you become someone new.
The world no longer sings softly in your ears.
Melodies with whistling chimes and hushed tones.
There is a sense of darkness and longing.
For something that you cannot quite grasp, but want anyway.
The voices of people no longer make sense, no matter what language they speak.
Only the voice inside of you, the one that says “shut up” over and over again,
Little by little,
People forget to care.
Because you have started to become invisible,
The same shade as the wall.
When melancholia sinks in, you become someone new,
And then you are no one at all.
10:18 pm 2 notes
I remember whispering to Dean, the night after we first made love. His body was warm next to mine and his arms were wrapped loosely around me, playing with my hair.
“You asked what happened to me.” My voice was slow and steady. ”And it isn’t very exciting, but I think I can tell you.”
His arms wrapped tighter around me. ”Yes?” He whispered back.
“My sister was messed up first. She had the eating disorder. She had anxiety and BPD and, well, she had everything. Made my head hurt every time something new was added to the list of diagnoses. My mother paid attention to her the most. Nothing was really left for my brother and I. We were very lonely.”
Dean nuzzled his nose into my hair. ”Keep talking.”
“I was alone in Alaska, like that Velvet Underground song. That was what it felt like because I was so lonely. And cold. But it felt like… I’m not sure I can describe. Just felt like…”
“Felt like there was nothing else you could do.”
“So I decided to screw up too. Except it wasn’t killing me. Not like what Lydia was doing to herself, or so I thought. She and my mother didn’t have to pay attention to me and I could get what I wanted most.”
Dean looked me in the eyes, tilting his head a bit. ”What did you want?”
I thought for a long while, the silence growing in the small space between us. ”I wanted to disappear completely.”
11:16 pm 2 notes
A lot has changed this past year but my insecurities have not. I think of myself as terribly shy and terribly lonely, even though I am probably neither. But the feelings that come with the ideas of those words are terrible and make me feel terribly.
11:06 pm 1 note
“Oh, come on Sammy. You know you want one.” I’m sitting outside the Bullet, Bramm’s most popular bar. Though it’s almost closing time, 1 am, there’s still a couple guys in the bar, playing pool. Rose, the girl I work most nights with, hands me one of her cigarettes. “You just got through a divorce babydoll. You need a cig.”
“You know I’ve been trying to quit.” I’m chewing a wad of nicotine gum and trying not to say yes, which I know my head would love. I figured that smoking wasn’t the best idea, seeing as how my uncle ended up dead from lung cancer, and he was a smoker his whole life.
“Oh, yeah. You totally don’t want one of these.” She pulls out the package and, fuck, the bitch has Camels. Those were my favorite and she knows it. She takes her lighter out from under her bra strap. “Come on, Sammy!” She pushes me over. “You just got dumped and robbed. Give yourself at least something.”
I chew harder on my gum, as if to get all the nicotine out from inside the piece, because I’m going nuts watching Rose blow smoke out of her mouth, red lipstick still intact. She turns around to me. “You look better, though. Less yellow.” She takes another puff then takes the cigarette out of her mouth. “Maybe I should quit.”
“Oh god Rose. This is what hell is like.” I pull out my nicorette pellets, the packaging folded in half.
“Hell is menthol cigs.” She nods, curly auburn hair bouncing up and down as she does.
“True that.” I put my elbow back on the street corner we are sitting on, right near the parking lot. I’m tired and I want to go home, because at least at night, I can dream that I’m smoking. It’s been two weeks without a cigarette, a personal best since I was a senior in high school. But I feel like I’m going nuts.
“I do not want to go home tonight.” Rose says. “Bobby’s gonna be pissed I wasn’t at that fuckin’ play. And we have parent teacher conferences tomorrow. Remember those? Ugh, fuck. I don’t want to hear what some shitty teacher has to say about my kids.”
Rose has three kids, Helen, Eddy, and Jasper. She’s been married for a few years, right before she got pregnant with Eddy, who is five now. She loves them but hates the job, she says. She says being a mom isn’t “all it’s cracked up to be.”
I remember when she told me she was pregnant a year ago, with Jasper. “It’s awful, Sam. Can’t drink, can’t smoke, can’t fuck without feeling like I’m about to puke. Hell is being pregnant.”
“Bet that school is like Hell. It’s hot in there, like hell, and the teachers, from what I remember anyway, were pretty bad.”
“Fuck you.” She looks at me, pushing my shoulder again. “Hell is this whole goddamned town.”
Sometimes I hate myself because when it’s too hot my lungs fill up with moist air that is hard to release. I cannot breathe and I hate my body from the inside out because it hurts to release the air.
Sometimes I hate myself because sharp pains hit my pelvic area and travel down towards in between my thighs and I’m not sure why.
Sometimes I hate myself because my eyes grow tired and every time I blink a dry, stinging sensation hits my inner eye and sticky tears rush down my face.
Most of the time I hate myself because my hands hurt and I can never figure out which part of my hand hurts the most. They cramp and I can’t move my middle or index fingers, or the outer side of my hands ache whenever I move them slightly, like a pain that you can tolerate but that travels slowly until it settles from the tip of your pinky to your wrist.
I remember my dad’s face looking down at me and smiling.
I remember my mother making things up about my dad that weren’t true.
I remember sitting on the white sofa in my house, watching the season 4 finale of “Will and Grace” with my grandma.
I remember eating spaghetti and trying not to get any sauce on my blouse.
I remember that I felt too tall and lanky most of the time.
I remember the flashing images of cartoons every day after school.
But the rest is all a blur, a torn picture in the back of my mind that I don’t, and never will, feel like putting back together.
11:50 pm 1 note