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“It’s so difficult to describe depression to someone who’s never been there, because it’s not sadness. I know sadness. Sadness is to cry and to feel. But it’s that cold absence of feeling— that really hollowed-out feeling.”

When yall singing along to some migos and that one white boy on your team slips up and says the N-word

“my mother’s trust issues are leaking into my chest and I’ve got my father’s nose and his tendency to stop calling back so I’m sorry about the 9 missed calls I have from you and the 6 voicemails I never played I swear I’d love you if I could”

“She’s stubborn and hard headed but god knows I love her. There’s days when she’s grumpy for no apparent reason other than the fact that she’s grumpy. When she’s sick, she’s helpless and all you can really do is hold her in your arms and comfort her till she falls asleep. There’s days when she’ll complain about everything like the weather, people, music, or even you and you’ll just have to deal with it. She’ll complain about the room being too hot, to only result in closing the windows in the middle of the night because she’s too cold. There are days when she shuts the world out, she’ll ignore everyone because she just wants to sit in silence. Sometimes, she’ll claim she can eat an entire cow because that’s just how hungry she is. So we’ll make dinner plans and I’ll pick her up just to have her say, “I ate already, I was too hungry but I’ll still eat a little something.” There are days when she suffocates me with love. She’ll kiss and kiss and kiss, till I beg her to stop. She’ll tickle me until my insides hurt and hold my hand till it’s sweaty. There are days when she’ll claim every part of my body with her lips. And there are days when she’ll need her space and I’ll have to pull a chair up alongside the bed because she just needs her own space. There are days when her hair is messy and all over the place. Days when she’ll cry and you don’t know why but you won’t ask you’ll just let her cry. Days when she’s nervous and jumpy about everything. Days when she yells at me for no reason just to apologize two seconds later. Days when she’s a pain in the ass and pushes my buttons just to settle it with kisses. Days when I’m listening to my favorite song and she’ll talk over it because talking is more important than music. There are days when I need her to make decisions, to do the littlest things like pick a place to eat. She’ll refuse and say “I don’t know” until I give up and decide myself. Sometimes she’ll swear like a sailor and make jokes during times when she should probably be serious. There are days when it’s 3 in the morning and she won’t let me sleep and days when she’s too tired and fast asleep by 10pm. Sometimes she’s clumsy and sometimes she’s a walking contradiction; but she is everything I’ve ever wanted. I’d do everything to have her bad days, her grumpy days, her “I need space days,” her love me days, her laughing days, her clumsy days, and her happy days, because she is everything I’ve ever wanted and I wouldn’t dare trade her for anything in this world.”

“Please remember you are still lovely despite being bruised and scarred from all the times you tried to crack your body open to let yourself out.”

“Maybe I let myself go too quickly; Maybe I forgot the difference between Falling and flying Maybe it was nature, maybe it was nurture Maybe it was both and they combined together to make me: A science experiment gone wrong, A halfway hazardous cross between shatter and boom A hybrid of some sort, Complete with foaming mouth and rabid eyes Maybe I didn’t know how to love someone more broken than myself Maybe I tried too hard to piece together what’s on the surface, And paid too little attention to fixing the pain that metastasized inside Maybe being unable to keep a stable relationship with anyone for too long Is another unwelcome trait inherited from my father Maybe I was only ever a bother Maybe skinny love was a term too thin For this air that is thick with self hatred Maybe curiosity didn’t kill the cat, but the cats hopes and dreams Maybe that’s the same thing Maybe we were both cats too curious for our own good Maybe we saw the storm, and wanted to know what freedom felt like Maybe dancing in the rain seemed like a better idea When we weren’t wet and cold and lost, Standing on the corner of ‘Maybe we can save each save each other’ and ‘No amount of duct tape will ever fix us’ Maybe semantic satiation never taught me to not repeat my mistakes Maybe we were a mistake Maybe I should’ve learned from my mother when she cried herself to sleep Maybe I should’ve learned from my father when he left on Christmas Eve If you repeat a word enough times, It loses its meaning I want to know, Did we lose our meaning? When did you decide that your pain was too repetitive for you to keep breathing? When did you decide that I’d be able to fall out of this cycle without you here? The thing about routine is that, You get so used to the same thing, over and over again, You become numb to it You fall into the habit of going through all the same motions And before you know it, You realize that a year has passed by And you still feel the same way you did on the night you arrived at the hospital The repetition catches up to you, And life begins to lose its meaning When did your life lose its meaning? Was it when you stopped eating? And why did you ever stop breathing? The stars never stop repeating their path across the night sky Why were you able to love them more than your own life? I’ve stopped thinking about you all of the time These days, I can’t afford to Or maybe I’ve just dreamt about you too many times And now, I’m beginning to forget the way your eyes used to shine What was the last thought you ever processed? Was it a single line, Running back and forth, again and again? Did you repeat the words until they lost their meaning, Until you lost yourself? Or was it a last minute thought that crossed your mind, A quick little notion just before your heart stopped beating Tell me, how did you expect me to keep breathing? Maybe you thought I was more of a fighter than I let on Maybe you didn’t realize that on your worst days, You were still stronger than me on my good ones Maybe you thought I would still have good ones Maybe I’m starting to forget the meaning of maybe Maybe after holding on for so long, You forgot how to Or maybe you confused numbness with recovery And you let your hands release the only lifeline you had Maybe you let yourself go too quickly; Maybe you forgot the difference between Falling and flying”

Maybe there’s a chance that you could shoot-up heroin just once, and experience the unprecedented bliss of heroin, a feeling which I think is a profound part of the human experience. Part of me believes that people ought to know what an IV heroin high feels like. I can’t justify it, really. I guess I believe that something that feels so unique and so, so good, deserves to be felt. Heroin ought to be experienced. I don’t know. Here’s the thing. Once you feel that feeling, if even one time, it cuts you so fucking deep that there is no turning back. It’d be like giving a blind man sight for just a moment, and then telling him to walk around for the rest of his life with a new knowledge of what he lacks. Once you know junk, it pulls your soul in that direction like a muslim to Mecca. It wounds you. IV heroin is like coming in from the cold to a warmth you never knew you lacked. Does that make sense? It’s like you’re born, and you need food for hunger, drink for thirst, warmth for cold, love for loneliness, and you get all of these things to sate your body and soul, and you’re a complete person. You’ve got everything you need and there are no loose ends. So then you take a shot of heroin and all of the sudden you have this new need. All of the sudden you’re lacking this’ something, and you walk around with half a fucking soul. Opiates put a cold in your bones that can’t be alleviated with the use of anything else. You’re out to a good meal, and your belly is full of expensive food. You’re still lacking. It’s Christmas morning and you’re surrounded by love and comfort. You’re still lacking. You fall asleep in the arms of the girl of your dreams, and you wake up to her on a Saturday morning. You’re still lacking. You work your balls off for that big sale and payday comes. Lacking. You lead an existence of hunger, cold, and want. It’s what I imagine an old widower feels like when his lifelong sweetheart passes away. There’s a part of you missing. If you want to experience shooting heroin, you’ll walk around for the rest of your life with a loose-end that can never, ever be tied up. It’s a splinter in your soul, man.

Mental illness is like fighting a war where the enemy’s strategy is to convince you that the war isn’t actually happening.

stuckinthewalls