I'm Fine

please dont waste your time on me

6,579 notes

I was six when Robert from down the block
pushed me onto a pile of rocks
my mama brushed the dirt off my cheeks,
washed off my bleeding knees
and told me “don’t cry, don’t show
weakness”

and in fifth grade my friend’s cousin passed away and
two days later i overheard some boys
calling her a crybaby

i think maybe i complain a lot about small things
like sore joints or headaches or chapped lips or
how long it is until the next episode of game of thrones
so everyone thinks the only problems in my life
are itty bitty butterflies but

I don’t talk about the bad stuff, you know? I don’t mention
the stuff that’s eating me up, the stuff that makes this skin
feel less like home and more like a prison,
the stuff that’s making my particles disconnect
from one another so i become
atomic dust, i just

i help a lot of people with their burdens, as often as i can
and i know they wouldn’t really mind it if i told them maybe
just a little about how bad it’s getting
but even my closest friends
i never want to bother because i hear their stories
about what they’re carrying and
i don’t want to add to it when they’re sad enough as it is
and when they’re happy, I know exactly
how rare it is for them,
so I don’t want to spoil it

the only thing is
a few days ago, I offered advice to someone who needed a
pick-me-up and she looked me in the eyes and asked
“how is it exactly that you know this stuff”

and I could have unzippered my bones and come
crashing out all over the floor
but instead I shrugged and smiled and said
“That’s what I do. That’s what I’m here for.”

"So, I think I’m depressed. Or burdened. Or something. I just can’t get my shit straight. I am always looking for somebody to fix. Or save. Or shape into a butterfly." /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

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I’m still up. its 2 in the goddamn morning and I’m still fucking awake. why the fuck am I still awake? why can’t I just go to sleep? why can’t I just let go of my stress, or my guilt, of my pain, of my fear? why do I have to carry all of this with me why does it have to pierce my mind and settle on my chest like a weight pressing down and suffocating me why does it have to grab my heart and wrench it in a million different directions until I am spread so thin I can’t even do one thing anymore why doesn’t it just go AWAY and LEAVE ME ALONE

God knows that’s what everyone else does anyway..

32,542 notes

The friend zone is very real. We have all had someone we were close to that we realized we were crushing on in a big way - but we hated ourselves for it. As much as we hoped and prayed things would change for the better, many of us acknowledged that our love for the other person was going to be detrimental towards the relationship. The people in this kind of friend zone cry while watching romance movies or go out and get drunk and kiss strangers. We make sure to keep a respectful distance between the person we like and ourselves - we are distinctly afraid of fucking things up because of our shitty heart being a complete dickweed and doing the thumpy thing when it shouldn’t.

The Friend Zone is entirely false and is a complete invention made by boys who on one hand get angry if they think you’re soliciting sex by playing video games but on the other hand get angry if you are not soliciting sex just by breathing. The Friend Zone consists rarely of actual friends - instead it’s often people who stare at us in class and make us uncomfortable by constantly trying to talk to us while we’re obviously engaged in something else. These are the people who invade our personal space and aren’t afraid to talk dismissively about the things which we are passionate about - our faith in particular.

These are not kind people. Once I was in a hospital’s waiting room and a woman was quietly saying a prayer for her son. After a few minutes, several other people joined in, linking their hands and bowing their heads. The boy next to me began to talk loudly to me about how disgusting and juvenile it was and how amused he happened to be by the behavior of the “sheep.”

"I’m Catholic," I replied, looking into his eyes, "I think what they’re doing is beautiful."

He looked down my shirt. “You seemed more intelligent than that,” he snorted, “I should have known. Are you even reading that book or are you just skimming?”

I blinked. I wish I had said something like, “No, I’m just breathing in the words and hoping they stick,” but instead I just gave him a dirty look and tried to tune him out. He kept talking to me for the better part of an hour.

Eventually, he got around to asking me out for coffee. I wanted to explain I was waiting for my mother to get out of chemotherapy, that my family was poised on the edge of a terrible end, that I barely knew him and basically already hated him. Instead, I smiled sheepishly and said, “I’d rather not.”

"You bitch," he replied. I watched his face flare hot. "You sluts are all like this. You play hard-to-get faux-intelligent and you lead people on just to hurt them."

"I’m…?" I started. I was scared. He was in my face. His hands were curled into fists.

"You’re all like this," he repeated. At this point, a few of the other people in the room were staring. I was pressed against the side of my chair, trying to get as far from him as I could. He wouldn’t lower his voice. "You fucking friend zone all the nice guys and date shitty asshole men and then come crying to our shoulders when you need someone."

I am not a confrontational person. Panic bubbled in my throat. I felt tears jump into my eyes. I started stuttering again. I was really honestly positive he was going to hurt me - for no other reason than turning down coffee.

This is the difference between the friend zone and the Friend Zone: one is hating yourself for liking the other person. The other is hating the other person for not liking you.

A nighttime story about why the terrible deep Friend Zone, mostly written because about seventeen boys have asked what I mean when I complain about it. (via inkskinned)

(via inkskinned)

3,024 notes

According to string theory,
somewhere out there is a universe
where looking into a mirror shows the face
of your true love.
Every day you would look into their eyes
and know you were born to make this person happy,
this person whose appearance doesn’t matter
in the slightest
because even on their worst days
they’re still filled with light.
You would watch them grow up
and get bad haircuts and
cry at odd hours and smudge their makeup
and the whole time you would think:
Good god, but are you
perfect
to me.
Here’s the thing:
you already live
in that universe.
You have already seen the person you should love
above all else
because every time you look in the mirror,
you see yourself.
And good god, but you are perfect to me /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

4,802 notes

Who created the notion that young girls
are so desperate for male attention
that we bring blades to the insides of our wrists
just so some guy will sweep in
and save us

who was the first person that sold the idea
that self-harm is just a disgusting form
of a short skirt: just like everyone dresses
how they do for someone else’s attention
and couldn’t possibly take action in regards
to their own desires and choices
we’re just poor dumb
deluded creatures who must truly think
our scars
are beautiful - who was it

because you were right.
I did do it out of want for love.

I did it because there was no love
inside of me, none at all, no love for this body
nor this life. I did it because I was so incredibly numb
at times I questioned if I was even alive.
I did it because I was addicted and
when you don’t love yourself yet, you can’t
see a single reason to keep from doing it.

I was certainly caught up in the idea
that someone would see, someone would ask about it.
I very much liked the notion
of someone finally liking me enough
to try and help - but then,
what’s so very wrong about not being strong enough
at fourteen years old
to battle a demon that is the only thing to make you feel
a little bit in control
what’s so wrong about needing a hand to hold
until you’re well enough
to walk on your own?

The only thing you got wrong
was the boy in this story. Never in my life
have I pictured Prince Charming and thought “Golly,
I sure hope that he saves me.” It could have been anybody. I
never wanted a romance to go along with it.
I didn’t need someone to kiss the scars, I just wanted
someone to tell me to stop when I could not stop myself.
I just wanted a friend. I just wanted someone, anyone
to be there for me when I needed it - but I never asked aloud.
I didn’t want to be a burden.

I have been so scared to be naked in front of people
since I was in middle school. What gave you the idea
I’m proud of these moments? Have you ever actually seen
someone else’s scars, unless it’s by accident? Because
the people I know who self-harm
will do anything in their power
to keep it hidden.

Why is everything a girl goes through
always made to be about men? Even when I’m
hurting myself, it’s about wanting their attention. Even
an action like taking every ounce of my self-hatred and
channeling it into a blade
is somehow translated into
“stop hurting yourself just to get laid.”

There are boys who cut too.
What will you say to them?
“I’m sorry, but your pain doesn’t count,
don’t you know girls only do this
to be lovely and broken.”
Maybe boys cut for the same reason other
people do too: they’re in pain and
they have no other way to grapple with emotion.
Maybe every time you tell a girl,
“You only do this for attention,” you’re telling
a young boy, “Don’t show how bad it is, just keep it in,”
you’re telling him,
“This is a thing only desperate little girls do,
never men.”

I battled this for years. It has always been
my fight, and mine alone. It has
nothing to do
with the boys and girls I have loved.

Destroy the idea that self-harm is just for attention, because the minute you put a label like that on it is when you start saying “Oh, that means we don’t have to help them.” Destroy the idea asking for help is a sign of weakness. It’s okay to need other people sometimes. It’s okay to look for people to love you if you have no one. It’s okay. There’s a reason therapy is a legitimate profession. Sometimes you’ll need other people to overcome things. Destroy the idea that young kids find beauty in depression. Destroy the idea that boys aren’t hurting. Destroy the idea that any girl ever has said “I’ll just hurt myself and he’ll love me” because
that’s never going to happen.

My body is not an art museum I have never invited someone to look at the paintings and applaud me for dismantling myself into tiny little pieces. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

287,833 notes

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is eight years old, she’s got pink cheeks that her grandmother calls chubby. She wants a second cookie but her aunt says “you’ll get huge if you keep eating.” She wants a dress and the woman in the changing room says “she’ll probably need a large in that.” She wants to have dessert and her waiter says “After all that dinner you just had? You must be really hungry!” and her parents laugh.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is eleven and she is picked second-to-last in gym class. She watches a cartoon and sees that everyone who is annoying is drawn with a big wide body, all sweaty and panting. At night she dreams she is swelling like the ocean over seabeds. When she wakes up, she skips school.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is thirteen and her friends are stick-thin ballerinas with valleys between their hipbones. She is instead developing the wide curves of her mother. She says she is thick but her friends argue that she’s “muscular” and for some reason this hurts worse than just admitting that she jiggles when she walks and she’ll never be a dancer. Eating seconds of anything feels like she’s breaking some unspoken rule. The word “indulgent” starts to go along with “food.”

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is fourteen and she has stopped drinking soda and juice because they bloat you. She always takes the stairs. She fidgets when she has to sit still. Whenever she goes out for ice cream, she leaves half at the bottom - but someone else always leaves more and she feels like she’s falling. She pretends to like salad more than she does. She feels eyes burrowing through her body while she eats lunch. Kate Moss tells her nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, but she just feels like she is wilting.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is fifteen the first time her father says “you’re getting gaunt.” She rolls her eyes. She eats one meal a day but thinks she stays the same size. Every time she picks up a brownie she thinks of the people she sees on t.v. and every time she has cake, she thinks of the one million magazine articles on restricting calories. She used to have no idea a flat stomach was supposed to be beautiful until she saw advice on how to achieve it. She cuts back on everything. She controls. They tell her she’s getting too thin but she doesn’t believe it.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is sixteen and tearing herself into shreds in order for a thigh gap big enough to hush the screams in her head. She doesn’t “indulge,” ever. She can’t go out with friends, they expect her to eat. She damns her sweet tooth directly to hell. It’s coffee for breakfast and tea for lunch and if there’s dance that evening, two cups of water and then maybe an apple. She lies all the time until she thinks the words will rot her teeth. She dreams about food when she sleeps. Her aunt begs her to eat anything, even just a small cookie. They say, “One bite won’t make you fat, will it, darling?”

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is seventeen and too sick to go to prom because she can’t stand up for very long. She thinks she wouldn’t look good in a dress anyway. Her nails are blue and not because they are painted. Her hair is too thin to do anything with. She’s tired all the time and always distracted. She once absently mentions the caloric value of grapes to the boy she is with and he looks at her like she’s gone insane and in that moment she realizes most people don’t have numbers constantly scrolling in their heads. She swallows hard and tries to figure out where it all went wrong, why more than a granola bar for a meal makes her feel sick, why she tastes disease and courts with death. She misses sleep. She misses being able to dream. She misses being herself instead of just being empty.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is twenty and writes poetry and is a healthy weight and still fights down the voices every single day. She puts food in her mouth and sometimes cries about it but more and more often feels good, feels balanced. Her cheeks are pink and they are chubby and soft and no longer growing slight fur. Her hair is long and it is beautiful. She still picks herself apart in the mirror, but she’s starting to get better about it. She wears the dress she likes even if it only fits her in a large and she doesn’t feel like a failure for it. She is falling in love with the fat on her hips.

She is eating out with friends and not worrying about finding the lowest calorie item on the menu when she hears a mother tell her four year old daughter “You can’t have ice cream, we just had dinner.
You don’t want to end up as a fat little girl.”

Why do we constantly do this to our children? /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

6,744 notes

THIS IS THE SETUP: Why should you be nice to someone who is fat?
THIS IS THE PUNCHLINE: Because they have enough on their plate.

this is you, eight years old the first time you realize that your stomach is just a little bit bigger than the ones your friends have. it happens at a sleepover when cake is served and you’re the only one to take a third slice. this is you later, sitting with your fist in a popcorn bowl, watching disney movies. you look nothing like the princesses. you don’t have ariel’s waist or jasmine’s or anybody’s. you love the lion king because nobody’s human in it. this is the first time you learn that a fat person’s place is cracking jokes. everyone will love you if you’re funny enough.

THIS IS THE SETUP: Relationships are just like fat people.
THIS IS THE PUNCHLINE: Most of them don’t work out.

this is you, thirteen the first time your best friend kisses someone. her blonde hair spreads across your lap as she giggles about it. she has such blue eyes and such a perfect body. you are used to how easily she makes friends. you are used to how people just draw themselves towards her as if she was a solar eclipse. you are used to being funny while she is beautiful. you are her sidekick. you are always making them laugh. this is you, fourteen the first time you put on a miniskirt and stare in the mirror. you take it off and wear jeans to school. it is not your job to be sexy, it’s hers.

THIS IS THE SETUP: You know what’s ironic about pubs refusing to serve someone already drunk?
THIS IS THE PUNCHLINE: McDonald’s still serves fat people.

this is you, trying to lose weight in every way you can think of. atkins. paleo. alphabet. south beach. eating healthy, only eating halves, only eating orange food, only eating ginger root. this is you, somehow gaining weight no matter what you do. this is the phone call to your friends when you fake sick so you don’t have to go out swimsuit shopping with them. this is mentally begging yourself to stop feeding yourself at four a.m. but being unable to do it, just shoving more and more food into that rotten hole of a mouth, sucking up every crumb and cracker. these are tears pouring down your cheeks while you eat and eat and eat, sometimes forty-eight (and a quarter) servings of your “safe food,” sometimes a whole jar of peanut butter, sometimes a little bit of everything (followed by a lot of everything) until it feels like you’re not even human in those moments, like your hands are out of your control. it’s both disgusting to you and the only way that you feel whole. this is you, tumbling into a dark place until you find yourself secretly lusting for some kind of disease to strip this body off of your bones. this is you, feeling so guilty for the stray thought “i wish i had the control to starve myself.” this is you, stuffing a whole box of oreos into your mouth and thinking, “i wish i could stop.”

THIS IS THE SETUP: Life is like a box of chocolates.
THIS IS THE PUNCHLINE: It doesn’t last very long for fat people.

this is you, on the bus, closing your eyes and pretending you don’t hear the little boy say “mommy, why’s she so big?” this is you, overhearing whispers in the gym’s changing room. this is you, pretending to be overly confident because inside you’re completely wilted. this is you, skipping out of parties just so you don’t have to meet anybody, just so you don’t have to watch the look on their face when they first see you. this is you, picturing a zipper on the back of your neck, wanting to step out of this body. this is you, right before you fall asleep, wishing for some kind of needle to suck all of the fat right out of your tummy. this is you, telling your skinny friends “love yourself no matter what you eat,” and never hearing it used when you need it - when you’re freaking out, this is you finding messages like “why not try working out? i can come with you if that will help,” “eating healthy is easy once you get used to it!” “you’re not really very big, not like seriously anyway. just wear clothes that aren’t very tight. no one will see.” this is you, having no one to talk to. this is you, begging yourself for control. this is you, growing older and still only getting bigger, bigger, bigger, while your heart seems dead-set on shrinking ever smaller. this is you, being asked if you are pregnant. this is you, without a prom date, unwilling to wear a dress, reading books where the fat girl gets all the guys because she’s funny even though you’re actually left all by yourself, this is you listening to girls talk about sex, this is you being the odd one out, the walking insecurity, the faceless monster, the unpretty.

THIS IS THE SETUP: You hate food so much you want to set yourself on fire, you want to burn off your fingers so you never pick up another sandwich, you want to sew your mouth closed and chop away at the rolls on your hips, you want to dissolve into a puddle and just be pretty and popular and skinnier than the rest - more importantly, you want to actually feel those things, actually feel good about yourself, actually be able to do things but
THIS IS THE PUNCHLINE: You keep eating.

this is you, the joke sitting permanently on your bones. this is you, but you are not alone. this is your best friend and you are both only a little tipsy when a drunk girl says “you need to lose some weight, fatty,” this is your best friend throwing the only punch you’ve ever seen her give, her small stature usually leaning towards being more passive. she bruises her knuckles and rips the other girl’s dress. a stranger mutters something under her breath while you squeeze through a door and your little sister goes from all smiles directly into fire, she spits out more sass than you’re sure is appropriate for a high schooler, she says things you think she’ll have to apologize in church for. this is you, being there for yourself when you feel like you have no one, standing in the mirror and saying, “my eyes are great and i am important.” this is you, refusing to be the punchline anymore, refusing to be beaten into a pulp, this is you, willful and maybe not as proud of yourself as you’d like to be but still ready for anything, this is you, occasionally still falling apart because it all hurts so badly, a lot - but this is you, and you have always been more than three letters, more than a word, more than anything they said to you to get themselves off, this is you and this is your story. be sure that you are the one doing the writing. don’t let them turn your saga into a tragedy.

this is you, and you are learning how to feel beautiful, slowly.

This is you, and this is me. You are not alone. We’ll get through this, just wait and see. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)