Favorite Color

Favorite color

Everyone have a favorite color. My mother is purple, my father is navy, my brother is blue, and my sister is yellow.

Mine’s a bit unusual. Weird even. It’s not white or blue, not green or red, not brown or grey. Some say that it’s not even a color.

The color of my parents’ eyes when they see me. The color of the voices that haunt me in my dreams. The color of the ink I used to write my bio. The color of my grades. The color of my 7 year-old self's eyes if they could see me now.

The color of failure. My favorite color. Disappointment.

- There’s a pile of dust under my bed. (k. m.) 

(please don’t delete my caption! ♡)

let’s talk about a ptsd thing that’s called sense of foreshortened future. i don’t see anyone ever talking about it here and i think that it’s important that people know that what they experience is nothing but another symptom of their mental illness.

So what is it?

Basically, sense of foreshortened future is a feeling or a belief that for some reason you won’t have a long and fullfilling life. You feel like you will die soon – or sooner than expected – and therefore you shouldn’t make any long-term plans. You try to avoid long-term relationships, you don’t have any career plans, reaching your birthday - hell, sometimes even managing to surivive the week surprises you. 

You feel like you’ll never have a normal life because you’re not only broken beyond repair but also can’t trust anyone anymore. It is an incredibly depressing feeling that makes you feel like there’s no point in… anything, really? Every activity becomes dull and pointless and you don’t know what drags you though life at this point.

I know it won;t make the feeling go away but I want you to know that this feeling is NOT a reflection of reality. You’re not broken beyond repair and you will have a normal happy life if you work on your recovery. making plans is not pointless. You deserve to be happy and you will be happy. Don’t let PTSD and its symptoms convince you otherwise.

“Those poor boys”

“She deserves to be punished too.”

“I’m not saying I support rape, but-”

“Sorry to say - she deserved it.”

“She put herself in harm’s way”

“But if she was fingered, then that’s not rape.”

“She ruined their lives.”

Remember when you were picked for teams as a child, and there was always that last child who would be staring at the floor knowing they were going to be last?

That child knew the pain that came from humiliation and loneliness better than they ever should have. Remember that child who spent every lunch time alone in a bathroom stall, or completely changing who they were, to feel accepted into any group they could find?

That child grew up thinking it was normal to be whispered about all day, normal to be pushed into lockers, and normal for people to never be able to love them, and accept them for the way they were.

That child spent the rest of their life trying to heal others, trying to give them love.

And all it did, was leave them empty.

That child was me, and still is. I am now the adult with a broken heart, the adult unsure of finding someone who will love them again. When you have lived your entire life being told you are not good enough, you start to believe it. When you are always that friend willing to go above and beyond for your friend’s happiness, yet they could not care less about you when you are down, you start to believe that’s normal. That child was me, that child will always be me, and I will always have a heart too big for those that don’t deserve it.

Someone: I hate you

Me: No one hates me more than myself