“When it hurts we return to the banks of certain rivers.”
— Czeslaw Milosz, I Sleep A Lot (via lesgardenias)
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Not today Justin

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@feelitpop
“When it hurts we return to the banks of certain rivers.”
— Czeslaw Milosz, I Sleep A Lot (via lesgardenias)

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“—there is a power that wants me to live, I don’t know why.”
— Franz Wright, from “Walden,” in Walking to Martha’s Vineyard (via firstfullmoon)
Michael Frazier, “Irrational Fear of Home”
“How much longer must I carry this body of grief ?”
— Ono No Komachi, from “Love Poems by Ono No Komachi and Izumi Shikibu; The Ink Dark Moon”

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I think I’ll always be difficult to love
“I’m not really here I’m only the shape of the emptiness that holds me”
— Cecilia Vicuña, from “Hallwalls Contemporary Art Center: Buffalo, NY, September 27, 1998,” Spit Temple tr. Rosa Alcalá (via lifeinpoetry)
“Sometimes that’s all you need. Someone who gets it. A light in the darkness. Some empathy in a cold world. A little understanding of the chaos inside.”
— JmStrong
“I’m only going to get hurt again. There is no God. I am ghost and ghosting and ghosted. I hunt myself.”
— Hannah Cohen, from “Crush,” published in Bending Genres

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“If you know someone who’s depressed, please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn’t a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather. Try to understand the blackness, lethargy, hopelessness, and loneliness they’re going through. Be there for them when they come through the other side. It’s hard to be a friend to someone who’s depressed, but it is one of the kindest, noblest, and best things you will ever do.”
— Stephen Fry
“That’s the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it’s impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.”
— Elizabeth Wurtzel
X_X
X_X
there is a very strange idea that exists that we are ill by choice; that we have never tried to get better. i have been told to climb mountains or swing from trees or learn to cope silently. i have been told about yoga, about crash dieting, about using extra pillows or less sugar, about deleting my social media, about being more adventurous, about parties i should attend, about books to read, places to travel, people to kiss, dresses to buy. that all of these individually could be the cure, or maybe if i mix them right i could wake up indestructible.
the thing that kills me is i’ve always tried it. i’ve done it. i’ve already used and overused physical activity to marginalize anxiety. i’ve eaten nothing but vegan organic solutions and i’ve also treated myself to everything fattening. i’ve done yoga and i’m good at it but i’m bad about keeping sugar-free. i deleted my social media, tried not having toxic friends, read self-help books about being a better person. i went to the parties, i dressed up nicely and smiled broadly, i studied harder in anticipation for when i couldn’t study at all, i wore bright colors or stayed out in the rain a second longer. i grew plants and pet dogs and tried it all.
when you are bad, it isn’t a matter of changing your attitude, of mind over matter. why would i do something when it doesn’t make me feel happy. it’s hard to get up the energy enough as it is, why bother when it fills me with numbness? the fact of the matter is that i go so cold i could hold the sun without burning. that’s what it is. i could be doing everything perfectly. i could be doing only my favorite things. it doesn’t make it go away. healing just takes time and patience. i grit my teeth and survive it.
stop assuming in my life i’ve never tried. i made it this far. you can be damn sure i’ve sampled every silly magazine cure and more. you’re not witnessing someone who just began the fight. you’re witnessing a seasoned warrior in battle and telling them you suggest using a knife.

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Adonis, Selected Poems; “Beginnings of the Body, Ends of the Sea” (tr. Khaled Mattawa)
“I am someone who thinks and feels much – more than is reasonable. And that is all.”
— Virginia Woolf, from Moments Of Being: Unpublished Writings