Limbo Wouldn’t Be So Bad But For The Wind

All magic has a cost. I hope you've been paying for yours.

You're funny (sometimes) even when you're not just saying my jokes louder to more attention. You're fun to be around when I've decided to enjoy the place and time no matter what. I appreciate the gifts you give, especially the rare ones that made you think of me and not of you. You tell me you want to support me which is almost like doing so. I'm convenient which is a place like priority if you squint. I think you think you love me. Maybe I make you think that. Maybe that's okay. But, maybe, I am not loved and, maybe, I don't love you.

The last straw is just that. The last. It doesn't have to be heavier, sharper, rougher, more grating or stabbing. It just has to be the last one. It doesn't have to be the single straw you can't carry. It can be the first straw you won't. It can be the straw no different from any before when you realize it looks just like all of the straws yet to come.

I grew and my skin stretched, tore, and scarred. I lived-and heard and saw and felt- and my heart did the same.

There are moments and places, swaddled in the clouds of dreams, comfortingly warm or soothingly cool, secure and unchanging. In those places I still love you.

Naturally the stars shine proudly with fiery passion. They’re far, far away and beyond embrace, blow, or reproach.

I think, if being afraid is going to keep making me sad, I'd rather take back all the sad in exchange for the fear.

Do you think there is a point where loneliness becomes feral?

It is nice to have people care. It is freeing to have no one care.

If Icarus knew what I know, he would have destroyed the wings. Had he felt what I feel, he’d have shredded them until his nails split and his fingers bled. Had he been born with such wings, he’d clip the feathers and break the bones. If Icarus knew what I know. The flight was brave, the height hubris, the joy naive, and the fall a mercy.

What does spiraling feel like? The moment right before vomiting. It is the peak of nausea and yet feels like the greatest control. It’s inevitable. I’m not jumping, but the falling feels like the most control I have had since the twisting and gagging began.

I do not lack drive. I do not lack ability. I lack courage. I am unwilling to subject myself to the knowing of others and terrified of their recognition. I am so ordinary and yet I feel the need to disappear lest someone see a spark in me I cannot feel and decide to snuff it out. I revel in anonymity and convince myself that comfort is not settling.

It’s just not enough to be a good person anymore. It’s not enough to TRY since apparently you can’t actually be a good person.

It sucks being at-risk, and with the potential of suicidal levels of illness-related fear, and realizing how few people in your life are willing to make sacrifices to keep you safe. Sorry I'm not as valueable as an escape from boredom, that nifty new grocery store, a hair cut, or a fucking houseplant.

"I want to die" memes hit different after SSRIs.

Today is hard. It is barely different from the days before and I’ve no hope the days following will be any more so. And it is so very hard.

Why does no one ever tell you about the FEAR? Not the anxiety, not the itching and burning, not the fidgeting. The FEAR.