Therapy - Tumblr Posts - Page 2
Q&A: Interview
would we recognize each other if we saw each other? turns out i do, it just took me a few minutes. i just gessoed over a canvas of you. that was enough.
would we recognize each other if we saw each other? turns out i do, but it took me a while. it wasn’t your face that pulled me in, it was your shirt. i have the same one.
i just gessoed over a canvas that put the last shovelful of dirt over your grave. i am now covering it in things that actually matter to me, with exactly one implication of you.
(i don’t want to disrupt the flow, but if i really didn’t care, why am i trying to rub it in? what am i trying to prove? and to who?)
that was a lifetime ago, was it not? the feelings i had at the time were okay to feel,(thisisgrowth) but now i don’t know why i was ever sad. angry. upset. empty. whatever the fuck.
(i have since learned that all emotions have been hidden and obscured)
i shoved you in a therapy shaped hole, diagnosed with bpd, (probably,) at least that’s what they told me in the hospital last march when they found me bleeding out and overdosed on the floor.
i shoved you in a therapy shaped hole, undiagnosed with bpd, because that psychiatrist didn’t know me for more than ten minutes, and she didn’t even write it down.
would we recognize each other if we saw each other? i asked myself that for years. i’ve changed so much, yet you might notice that nothing has changed. at all.
would we recognize each other if we saw each other? i hope my face was only familiar in a distant way, desperately trying to put a name on it. you don’t even know my name.
i had my closure forever ago. but i always wondered. if we’d recognize each other if we saw each other again.
he told me that we’d spend the rest of our lives looking for each other in new lovers, and then he said he was joking. i can think of twenty reasons why this is not the case and about three reasons why it is.
Я вирішила, що мені серйозно треба підійти до якості свого життя.
Просто ставити цілі - точно не для мене. Мені потрібен план щоденного буття, аби моя рутина могла допомагати щодня ставати більш щасливою та цілісною особистістю. Мій межовий розлад не має взяти верх наді мною.
Мене чекає подорож, яка має трохи розвіяти мене та надати сили йти далі. Адже сьогодні я просто здалась. Плакати пів дня та ненавидіти себе - це занадто навіть для мене.
В мене є глобальна мета. Стати щасливою.
Girl therapy is learning a completely new language
please say its not just me but to you also think that a therapeutic school wouldn't let a mentally unstable student go home/to there safe space?? or is it just me
Harry Styles: Stoic - Foreword (on Wattpad) http://my.w.tt/UiNb/zcCrBuLaFG People fear death even more than pain. It's strange that they fear death. Life hurts a lot more than death. At the point of death, the pain is over. Yeah, I guess it is a friend... -Jim Morrison "WHY WON'T YOU LET ME LOVE YOU?!" Harry screams, tears profusely running down his slightly indented cheeks, falling and gathering into small pools in the small indents of his clavicles and moistening the ends of his long brown hair. "Why won't you let me touch you.... caress you? Why?" he says his husky voice now barely audible and cracking from crying. I remain silent and stoic which by the way I've gotten pretty good at over the years. I never, I mean never ever express emotion because it shows weakness and vulnerability and only the strong survives in this cruel, corrupt, condemned, and so-called world I live in. My facade was particularly built on that." Ebony please.. Talk to me... say something...PLEASE!" Harry cries and pleads desperately. I continue to stare impassively at the door behind him not daring to make eye contact. Right now the idea of making a run for it all the way home and then locking myself in a room from feeling the guilt that I deserved, with just me and my very much appreciated friend, my blade, seems very appeasing to me. Subconsciously, I slip both hands in my pockets just to make sure it was still safely stored in my hoodie's pocket. Running the rough pad of my index fingertip along the edge of the blade, I release a soft and inaudible sigh of content as I feel it slightly slice through the calloused layer of skin. The pain feels so good. Pain is what has kept me alive all of these years. Pain makes me feel... real....
Harry Styles: Stoic - Foreword (on Wattpad) http://my.w.tt/UiNb/hGFwlOSaFG People fear death even more than pain. It's strange that they fear death. Life hurts a lot more than death. At the point of death, the pain is over. Yeah, I guess it is a friend... -Jim Morrison "WHY WON'T YOU LET ME LOVE YOU?!" Harry screams, tears profusely running down his slightly indented cheeks, falling and gathering into small pools in the small indents of his clavicles and moistening the ends of his long brown hair. "Why won't you let me touch you.... caress you? Why?" he says his husky voice now barely audible and cracking from crying. I remain silent and stoic which by the way I've gotten pretty good at over the years. I never, I mean never ever express emotion because it shows weakness and vulnerability and only the strong survives in this cruel, corrupt, condemned, and so-called world I live in. My facade was particularly built on that." Ebony please.. Talk to me... say something...PLEASE!" Harry cries and pleads desperately. I continue to stare impassively at the door behind him not daring to make eye contact. Right now the idea of making a run for it all the way home and then locking myself in a room from feeling the guilt that I deserved, with just me and my very much appreciated friend, my blade, seems very appeasing to me. Subconsciously, I slip both hands in my pockets just to make sure it was still safely stored in my hoodie's pocket. Running the rough pad of my index fingertip along the edge of the blade, I release a soft and inaudible sigh of content as I feel it slightly slice through the calloused layer of skin. The pain feels so good. Pain is what has kept me alive all of these years. Pain makes me feel... real....
I just realized something about the written English language and how it uses capital letters. So we capitalize the first letter of proper nouns i.e things which are unique and there is only one of (at least ideally). The Louvre, The Mona Lisa, Rosa Parks, and I.
We capitalize the word I, which implies, each one of us is unique and there is only one of us. Which is obvious. But like, isn't this reason enough to unapologetically be yourself? Or, you know, something more poetic along these lines.
My anxiety makes elaborate and strong narratives in my head and I'll be like, yeah, that makes perfect sense. Genius. I'm impossibly fucked. And then when I say it out loud, it's utter fucking crap.
One time in therapy, i was talking about how i was swamped on work coz the week before i had broken up from a relationship, and i phrased it with a pause for emphasis and monotone to tell well, coz i broke up. My therapist started laughing out so much, she couldn't stop, she apologized and then continued laughing.
I have never felt prouder in my life.
I knew then, if i died that exact moment, I'd have no regrets.
Me to my therapist:
I am just the conductor in this chaos symphony that is my brain.
My therapist: I’m using that from now on.
REBLOG THIS IF:
- you support trans kids under 18
- you support trans kids getting surgeries before 18
- you support trans kids starting hormone therapy before 18
Good news! I was not faking it!
Head empty just thinking of how I accepted I was in need of a psychologist on world mental health day. I did not know it was world metal health day.