💭

“Don’t fall so madly in love with the night that you lose your way!”

“You drink like you’ve got no one to go home to, but I was always there you just never realised”

maybe life isn’t for everyone. maybe i’m one of the unlucky ones. you know, like i was dealt a bad hand of cards, barely getting through life. but it’s okay. I haven’t had hope for awhile anyways.

“Someone once asked me what depression feels like. I said ‘like a slower way of being dead’ and I know it doesn’t make any sense but that’s just the way it is. laying in bed, unable to move even though there is nothing physically wrong with you doesn’t make much sense either. A family member once asked me why at my age I didn’t have a job. I said ‘i’m sick’ and they said 'being sad isn’t the same as being sick’ and, yeah, they’re right. being sad ISN’T the same as being sick. i can’t call in sad to work, or to school, or to anywhere else for that matter without being accused of throwing a self-pity party to which the only attendees are me and my sadness which is constantly being invalidated by those who don’t understand it, including me, because I don’t understand my sadness either. it’s difficult to admit this but the ugly truth is i have been sad for so long that I no longer remember what it’s like not be. kind of like when you have a cold and can’t breathe through your nose but instead of not being able to breathe through your nose, you can’t breathe AT ALL and all you can do is wait to suffocate while the people around you ask you what’s wrong but you can’t tell them because it wouldn’t make any sense. It never makes any sense.”

“You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.”

“That’s the thing, someone can fuck you over and fuck you over and fuck you over… but at the end of the day your twisted heart still wants them”

“You don’t miss me, and someday I have to stop hoping for you to.”

“She moved on. I never understand how she did, or how she could bring herself to, but she did. She was living her life to the fullest day by day with that amazing smile I fell for. And as I sit sipping on this glass and feeling myself slip into a dazed and foggy state of drunkenness, I seem to miss her more and more.”

“Having to tell myself “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m gonna be okay.” wasn’t beautiful or poetic. Sitting on my bathroom floor, crying begging someone to help me even though no one could hear me wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t something worth going through. The pain wasn’t worth it, it was fucking painful. It was fucking painful to wake up the next morning when all I wanted to do was die and that’s the fucking truth. The truth isn’t beautiful or poetic. It’s not a John Green book or a Notebook love story, it was real. The pain and the tears and the hurting was real. The aching was real and it was more than painful but painful is the only word to use because what I felt was something that didn’t have a definition. So don’t tell me that this pain will be worth it some day or that I should turn my hurt into something beautiful because you don’t have to go through something painful to learn something. I don’t have to force my pain to be beautiful because it wasn’t.”

“You never apologised to me for hurting me, but I apologised to you 12 times for being angry about it.”