I am so bored
of these boys that
think think think
instead of feeling.
E. E. Cummings said it:
“kisses are a better fate than wisdom,”
and I am living it,
pressing my mouth to others’
as a way of saying hello.
I am six tons of emotions with a tidal
wave heart. I do not think first.
I act, I react, I aim to
fall over others like a rain.
Call me foolhardy, call me illogical,
call me a spitfire of light chasing
whatever explosion brought me here.
I do not know logic
as well as I know passion,
and (I think) you can taste
my fury desire to be alive
in my kiss.
My mother once told me that trauma is like Lord of the Rings. You go through this crazy, life-altering thing that almost kills you (like say having to drop the one ring into Mount Doom), and that thing by definition cannot possibly be understood by someone who hasn’t gone through it. They can sympathize sure, but they’ll never really know, and more than likely they’ll expect you to move on from the thing fairly quickly. And they can’t be blamed, people are just like that, but that’s not how it works.
Some lucky people are like Sam. They can go straight home, get married, have a whole bunch of curly headed Hobbit babies and pick up their gardening right where they left off, content to forget the whole thing and live out their days in peace. Lots of people however, are like Frodo, and they don’t come home the same person they were when they left, and everything is more horrible and more hard then it ever was before. The old wounds sting and the ghost of the weight of the one ring still weighs heavy on their minds, and they don’t fit in at home anymore, so they get on boats go sailing away to the Undying West to look for the sort of peace that can only come from within. Frodos can’t cope, and most of us are Frodos when we start out.
But if we move past the urge to hide or lash out, my mother always told me, we can become Pippin and Merry. They never ignored what had happened to them, but they were malleable and receptive to change. They became civic leaders and great storytellers; they we able to turn all that fear and anger and grief into narratives that others could delight in and learn from, and they used the skills they had learned in battle to protect their homeland. They were fortified by what had happened to them, they wore it like armor and used it to their advantage.
It is our trauma that turns us into guardians, my mother told me, it is suffering that strengthens our skin and softens our hearts, and if we learn to live with the ghosts of what had been done to us, we just may be able to save others from the same fate.S.T.Gibson (via modernhepburn)
I will be writing a sociological research paper about the effects of the lyrics in Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines.
Please reblog this if you are a female who finds the lyrics of this song offensive or upsetting.
It has never been easy. When I was sixteen, I knew every potentially fatal thing in my house: Nail polish remover under the sink. Bottle of rubbing alcohol beside it. Hammer in the tool box. Forty foot bridge across the highway. Traffic outside my window.
I thought about slamming my own head against a counter until I lost feeling. I thought about punching myself in the face until I stopped breathing. I thought about running out into the street at two a.m. and waiting until a car came.
I never thought I’d make it to twenty-five. But I told myself to stay. Just for a little longer. Just to see.
So I did. I sat silent amongst my friends, searching for a way to speak. I stopped leaving my house. I swapped sleeping for staying up all night, staring at my bedroom walls. When someone came into my room to talk to me, I started crying. But I stayed. Because I thought, if I plan on dying in a few years anyway, what do I have to lose? And some days I didn’t feel like I was being swallowed whole. Some days I sat by my pool and sang until the sun set. Some days I kissed somebody on their parent’s couch and didn’t feel lonely when I got to my own bed. Some days I listened to a really great song and felt understood, if only for a second.
I stayed. And still I thought about bridges. And hammers to the head. And swallowing acetone to cleanse my insides. But slowly slowly slowly I began to understand that it was okay to cry, and shake, and feel anything but okay. I realized that there would still be days that my fist would rise to my cheek. And still, my face would sometimes resemble a bruised peach.
But now I tear up my lists of potentially ways to die before I complete them. I replace prescription: pills, rubbing alcohol, and razors with memories of the good days. Of holding your hand through the entire state of Oregon. Of running half-naked down a snowy street three New Year’s ago. Of riding go-carts in the Canadian wilderness. Of smoking cigarettes on the beach in San Francisco with someone I met six months ago. If I had left, we would not know each other.
If you feel the same way, stay. For the good days. And the sunsets. And the people out there who understand. Stay because being submerged in black water does not mean you have to drown. Stay. Just for a little longer. Just to see.
Stay | Lora Mathis
Erase the stigma behind mental illness. Being alive isn’t easy. We all have to help each other out. Losing Robin Williams to depression was a tragedy. Reach out to those around you and always offer help.
watch this link please now!!!!!!!!!!!!
Do not just like this, reblog it and watch it, they need witnesses, the police need to know they are being watched and that black lives fucking matter
She instilled in me that you don’t have to apologise for being a women. There’s no apology in my femininity.Lupita Nyong’o in Dazed & Confused magazine, talking about what she learned from her mother. (via miss-rumphius)
You can speak up for/in defense of someone, but you have no right to speak on behalf of that person. Speak WITH the community you wish to support, but never speak FOR them.
No one is going to give you the education you need to overthrow themAssata Shakur (via feministquotes)