Memoirs of a falling star

this makes my heart ache

I don’t like the phrase “A cry for help.” I just don’t like how it sounds. When somebody says to me, “I’m thinking about suicide, I have a plan; I just need a reason not to do it,” the last thing I see is helplessness. I think: Your depression has been beating you up for years. It’s called you ugly, and stupid, and pathetic, and a failure, for so long that you’ve forgotten that it’s wrong. You don’t see good in yourself, and you don’t have any hope. But still, here you are; you’ve come over to me, banged on my door, and said, “HEY! Staying alive is REALLY HARD right now! Just give me something to fight with! I don’t care if it’s a stick! Give me a stick and I can stay alive!” How is that helpless? I think that’s incredible. You’re like a marine: Trapped for years behind enemy lines, your gun has been taken away, you’re out of ammo, you’re malnourished, and you’ve probably caught some kind of jungle virus that’s making you hallucinate giant spiders. And you’re still just going “Give me a stick! I’m not dying out here!” “A cry for help” Makes it sound like I’m supposed to take pity on you. But you don’t need my pity. This isn’t pathetic. This is the will to survive. This is how humans lived long enough to become the dominant species. With NO hope, running on NOTHING, you’re ready to cut through a hundred miles of hostile jungle with nothing but a stick, if that’s what it takes to get to safety. All I’m doing is handing out sticks. You’re the one staying alive. [Taken From A Therapist’s Wall]

I’m sorry, you’re hurting. I’m sorry, the world wasn’t kind to you today.  Please remember you love relentlessly and give so much.  A true warrior  who thrives behind kind eyes and a fierce heart.

It is dark again. / I am sick of it / filled with it / dulled by it / thick with it.

i. you are both hopelessly lost before you stumble into each other, and somehow, together, you find the path again. there are a thousand late nights and a million shared smiles before either of you realize that you are learning to shine together, and if there is such a color as love, this has to be one of the shades. ii. you know each other like the backs of your hands, sometimes, you cannot tell where one of you ends and the other begins, this is what the sun and the moon feel like, you are poetry, you are poetry, you are poetry. iii. there are nights where it feels like you are forgetting each others’ voices, but you know that the constellations look different with time, and the fires in your heart are burning so bright, and there is stardust in both of you and the sky is yours, and this is something that will never fade.

My girlhood was spattered like blood with girls hating each other for being prettier and fighting over a boy who didn’t make any effort for one or the other, character assassinating each other by calling someone well liked a whore, a slut, a bitch and relishing in the fall of female celebrities from their ‘pedestals’. My girlhood was a war against my body until it looked just like the girls in the magazine, a war in which I attacked myself with weapons like wax, razors, creams until every part of me looked like it belonged to someone else. My girlhood was made of wilting dreams and innocence lost never to be replaced with anything but sad understandings about womanhood. My girlhood was made of all these terrible things. And I will be damned it I ever allow my daughter to be subject to anything like the wars I have had to fight as a little girl. I will be damned if I ever allow her to go to battle with her innocence the way I had to when I was just a little girl. Her girlhood will be made of softness, not like mine which was made of swords.