I swear to god bruh
Let me catch you in the streets
Bruh I swear to god
It’s time to stop romanticizing and glorifying mental illness. Normalizing it only makes things more difficult for people who actually suffer from mental illnesses.This bullshit that being ‘tragic’ and ‘misunderstood’ is not appealing, it’s destructive. Someone isn’t going to come along and think your scars are beautiful and make everything okay for you. You’ve got to make things okay for yourself.
Whatever it takes, be it medication, counseling, or just talking to someone you trust - it gets better. I promise.
You are stronger than your illness.
Suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Mental health information
reasons why babies are not needed:
- head to body ratio is uneven
- when was last time baby contribute to dinner time conversation
- baby unable to hunt for the clan
- baby is slow and usually racist
- Brother: I wonder what Satan looks like..
- Me: Well, first off his name is Lucifer and he's a fallen angel. According to the bible he was suppose to be super gorgeous.
- Brother: Really?
- Me: Yeah. I guess you could say he was....
- Brother: ???
- Me: ... fine as hell.
A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.
Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)
When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.
Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.
Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.
Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.
Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.
Everyone on this site is so crazy.
Part ways amicably like you really mean it!
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