september 13th, 2019

it would be nice. to hear your voice, and believe that it’s all right. because my head feels like it’s melting. and i don’t know what to believe. and it would be nice to not feel this way, for a while, okay? to not feel… alone. or empty. or… like a castle, crumbling to pieces. or like a girl who can’t stop tearing herself to pieces, because it’s habit. and because rather than playing with toys in the basement like a normal kid you had an illness. and now maybe now do you understand why it hurts like this? why it’s so hard to let go like this? and why i can’t even step out of my room without having a panic attack like this? like this? like this? and it would be really nice to not hate myself so much all the time. or to have any idea what’s going on inside my head. or to be able to maintain a stable social interaction, but obviously… that’s not going to happen. at least… not this time. because that’s the thing about mental illness, isn’t it?  if you get a broken leg, you can put it in a cast. and if you get the flu, there’s a shot for that. but there are no surgeries to fix a childhood spent believing you’re worthless. there is no instant cure. there is no miracle fix. even if people can listen. and help. and hold your hand, for however long they have. and give you hugs, and suggestions, and make you feel okay for the first time in ages. but this is my fight. this will always be my fight. and no one else can change that.


i think the thing about getting help is–before you actually get it, at least for me, it had this kind of mythic status in my head. once i got help, i would be okay. i would be normal. i would be cured. just like that. i don’t think it’s like that. therapy helps. it really does help. but it helps you fix yourself. going to therapy is work. maybe i’ve always thought of it like a medical surgery–like something i just had to lie still and wait for the anesthesia to kick in for. but it’s not like that. it’s the opposite. going to therapy is like operating on yourself while fully conscious. therapy is relearning everything you ever thought was true about yourself. and i can’t say how much that has helped. but in the end… you still have to choose what you do with that. no one else can fight the battle for you. they can only support you in it.


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i am an empty room (spoken word)

empty room(3)


trigger warning: depression, numbness, hopelessness, vague self-harm mention, suicidal thoughts. if you need to talk to anyone, please read this list of crisis lines by clicking here. i know it’s not much, but… you are never the only one who feels like this. ❤
read the text of this poem here.


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today

today the sun rose, and the sun fell. i didn’t ask you sure how one pocket of time can feel so tiny and yet so massive, and maybe it’s all about perspective. today, it’s hard to write this without it feeling like i’m pushing my way up through sticky honey and the fog of closed curtains broken flash drives and half-asleep panic attacks, but i’m trying. today, i decided i would try and drown my feelings. only then i decided to fold them; try to find symmetry out of the chaos and make sense out of everything and it didn’t really work, but i did write poetry. and today, i wasn’t the person i want to be. because i’m never the person i want to be. today, i think my fingers shook on the keyboard with the quiet electric shock of my anxiety. today, i think maybe you’re not who i think you are and that scares me. and it’s all lies and empty faces. and these words do i mean it is this really my voice do i really mean it what am i saying what role am i trying to fill again what is this? what is this? and will you still love me in the morning? and was i good enough to be worth your time? maybe i’m not good enough. i spread my arms out like the page of a book and i turn myself into your story. and why am i not enough to be your everything? and today i try to wrap my arms around myself until the words stifle my mouth. i curl up into a corner and my heart is one massive explosion of charcoal and screaming and my eyes which are always kind of closing. the stars are shaking above me. and i want to be ok but i’m not but i’m trying. i’m trying. i’m trying. i hope that means something.


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11p.m.

did you know fun fact your perfect product comes at the cost of my mental well being? example: today, i realize at 9:30 i decide i need to finish two units of french for no apparent reason other than my skin is crawling and to leave anything half-broken makes me feel nervous. i finish a lesson. work harder, because my stomach is jumping out of my chest, and it’s hard to think clearly when your body works like this. it’s hard to sift through the lies desperately carving myself to the finish line because part of me just wants to keep moving, and part of me wants to do big things, but part of me just wants to grab your hand and never let go of it but even i know it’s more complicated than that. i’m trying to care of myself and stuff like my friends tell me to and stuff because i know they want me to be happy and stuff but it’s difficult to fill an empty mind with only other people’s love. and try to hold onto the good memories like lifelines, when the storm is telling you a hundred thousand lies. and i’m not a machine but i kind of wish i could be. but i also don’t because i think it would break me. seeing everything i could achieve, and still having to let go of all of it. so i chase after these concepts late into the night, over and over and over again. and yeah. it’s never gonna happen. but i still want it more than anything. i still sacrifice my mental well-being at the altar of my insecurity every night and every morning. it takes a long time to put the monsters to bed and now it’s too late at night. and the weight is blinding, and the only thought left in my empty head is that i don’t want to be normal or emotionless or whatever it is, not when it comes down to it. i just want to be accepted.


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wattpad and other updates on my life

trigger warning: depersonalization, anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts

hello people! so over the past couple  days i have been a nervous wreck, which is probably because of the new wattpad account; i’m not good with new changes in my life and at first i generally throw myself way too much into them and then wonder why i’m at the verge of a mental breakdown.

i’ve been finished all my schoolwork (i homeschool, but take one class at the local high school) for a week now, which means i have a ton of spare time coming up. so far i’ve been pretty much nonstop busy, between running this blog and my wattpad account (let alone touching any of my other social media) i haven’t had that much time to myself. also, compulsions are time-consuming, which really doesn’t help. like, i’ll be trying to write, and then i’ll decide to check my wattpad in case there are new notifications or views or something. only five minutes later, i’ll need to check it again, and again, and again. i can kind of manage it, and i’m working on it, but…. sometimes, i feel like you can’t heal from something until you face it head on, even if that means repeating that action. running away from my feelings isn’t that simple, and i’m trying to stop doing that, but GAH. it’s like, whenever my mind senses that my heart (emotional cortex, whatever you want to call it) feels too much, its immediate response is to panic and shut down and try its hardest to go numb to it. like, i have this problem with being controlled. so whenever i feel like a figure of authority (usually my parents) might try to control me, i shut down and immediately go numb to everything. i’m not sure if that’s depersonalization or not. this is hard to describe without using poetry, but it feels like the part of me that is me–my soul, my heart, my brain, whatever–is being pulled slowly out of my body, and what’s left is just a husk. it’s empty. and trying to help myself through that is, of course, really difficult, because i’ll be trying to reason with myself and in response to myself, i’ll just be like “but why should i do this calming thing, my feelings don’t matter at all and i am just a speck in the cosmos and i will die and DID I TELL YOU YOU ARE A WORTHLESS UNLOVABLE PILE OF CRAP??” and the cycle will go on. usually, i write it out to distract myself… but it’s painstaking. and difficult. honestly, even thinking about it is difficult for me, because if i do i’m usually pretty prone to sliding into that feeling. i had a couple weeks last month where i honestly felt like i was done with that feeling. now, it feels like it’s coming back to me again. i’m not sure what that means.

it feels like, to me, there’s this box of sadness that’s constantly in my chest. and most of the time, i’m fine, because all this sadness is kept below the surface. but sometimes that box of sadness gets opened up. and then i kind of explode, i guess. so is that depression? because whenever i think about that word, it feels like…. like i’m standing in the middle of a fog. and when i try to write about that feeling, in short stories or poetry, it comes innately. so do i spend all day feeling sad? no. i can function. i can get up and take showers and write poems and maintain a social life with people who i really care about and get my schoolwork done and most of the time, i don’t even think about it. but sometimes, that box of sadness gets just a little bit open, everything comes crashing down, and it’s all i can do to hold myself back from the edge. that place is where most of my poetry comes from.

i feel like that’s probably a coping mechanism i developed when i was younger. when i was six when i first started having suicidal thoughts. i feel like when you’re that young when mental illness really starts to hit (before that i was irritable and anxious, but not depressed)… you can’t get through that without burying it, a little bit, which is what i consciously did. when i was nine, i decided that i wasn’t going to show anyone how i felt, that i wasn’t going to be broken and sad anymore. and most of the time, it worked. but i would also explode. i remember one time my teacher was yelling at me and i panicked so bad that i ended up scraping my skin to the point of bleeding with a ruler. since then, writing has helped me learn a lot about how to express myself and has made me a lot more conscious of my feelings. but part of me is still that nine-year-old kid who is determined not to be dragged down or labeled or seen by anyone else as weak for what they’ve been through, or different. a part of me that has so many feelings, and no idea how to deal with it.

i guess that’s why i write. and it is getting better, it’s just… slow. and although i can see my progress looking backward, in the moment, it’s easy to forget that.

okay, on a more technical note, i have four stories on wattpad now. one of them is fanfiction, because i am a nerd, so i won’t give you the link to that one. the other ones are short stories, two of which are ongoing and one of which is finished. check out my profile here: https://www.wattpad.com/user/dragonwritesthings. read heroes here. read the sleep here. and read to the person whose virus infected my computer here.

today, POEMS WENT UP!! read them here, here, here, and here. i’ll be posting more on monday, and i promise to make up for the dump of emotional vomit and sadness there will be another happy one. 🙂

i hope you’re all doing all right. just in case you’re not, here’s a list of crisis lines. (it’s from wattpad support, but it’s the best masterlist i’ve been able to find on the internet so far, so just ignore the first part and scroll down.) you are not alone in this. ❤

big hug and deep breath,

-souls