I have dreams in which I’m running really fast through the city, and the buildings and lights pass by me. I never get tired, but I don’t get anywhere no matter how fast I run. I want to get away from this life, and I feel so detached from everything, including myself. I dance the sadness away, I write it away, but it creeps back in.
Sadness is a cancer that keeps eating you up. It starts as a tiny tumor, and you do your best to take it away from you, but it grows silently until it fills you up. It takes over your whole body, and it makes your gut rot; until it eats up all of you.
Sadness kills, slowly, and then suddenly. You are there, just existing. And then, one day, you’re just gone. I’m not here anymore.
What can I call this feeling, besides a cancer in your brain? It takes up your mind, your body, spreading like fire. And like fire, it consumes everything around it, until it burns you entirely.
I have dreams in which I run so fast, and in this dreams I am running from myself. I run from the long arms and cold fingers of sadness, trying to grab a hold of me. It will embrace me with its strong arms, and it won’t let me go. I look back and I can see those arms getting closer. They pull my hands, they pull my hair, but I escape. For now, I escape, because I never stop running.
The darkness has an evil grin in its face, but it never laughs. It never calls for me, it never screams. It stares at me as it comes closer, and it remains in silence as it chases me. I can feel its nails on my arms as it tries to grab me by my arms. I can feel thed coming down my skin as I escape. I’m wounded, and bleeding, but I’m still running. Can you see it? It is crawling like an animal. It runs so fast. I am so tired. Can’t you see it? It’s right behind us.
I don’t share much with you, my followers, so have some facts
I like being with girls, and I like a girl. I won’t share that here, because I don’t want to share that much. She is perfect. That is all.
I take the pill. I think it is great for my PMS. I am a feminist. I won’t take rape, sexist or any type of offensive comments regarding my gender or sexuality. I don’t hate men, I don’t hate straight people. But I will defend myself if someone attacks me. And my defense shouldn’t offend people, therefore, people have no right to call me a “feminazi” when I try to express to them that I don’t accept sexism. I don’t want to live in fear of being assaulted on the bus, of being called names or having strangers touching my body when they are not allowed. I don’t want to live in fear of being raped or attacked, or robbed, or being humiliated in public by someone that does that because I am the “weak gender”. I’ve had my dress taken off (or violently pulled off, as you prefer) exposing my whole body in public, on the middle of the street. I was obviously not expecting it. But it did make me feel worthless, dirty and humiliated. The one that has no worth is the one that did that to me, I know that now.
I study International Relations in University.
I am usually an outcast everywhere, because I feel really awkward all the time.
I am constantly fighting depression.
My anxiety makes me feel awful all the time. But I won’t let it be the end of me.
I am from Brazil, and I’ve never been to another country. It’s my dream to go everywhere, talk to every one, and eat everything!
I want everything. But I don’t need much. And my desires are indeed violent, and they can destroy me.
I love writing. I love animals. I love cuddling.
I have a very strong love for history. That’s all I ever loved studying my whole life. It makes me happy to read a book and know that all those amazing things have happened.
When I am sad, I look to the stars, and I make wishes to the moon. It makes me happy to know that we are made of the same stuff that the universe is. It makes me feel special and important to know that I am here, and that I am part of this amazing universe. I feel amazed by the fact that we see the stars shining even after they are dead, and that the sun has been shining upon this planet for so many years, too many years for me to imagine. We are here. And that is good enough for me.
I wanna buy a bunch of golden star stickers like the ones teachers give to kids
so every time someone says something really stupid I’ll just get up and stick a star in their forehead and say “congratulations”
and just quietly go back to my seat
Life was awful, I felt sick and I wanted to die. The pressures that came from ballet were slowly killing me. I felt like I would never fit in to this world of beauty; as if it were a mystery I would never see unravel in my eyes. I was condemned to be part of the public, and I would never be the artist. Always admiring and being amazed by some kind of beauty I would never reach. It made me incredibly sad to be only part of the crowd.
I came to terms that, to me, there was never going to be a backstage moment. The curtains open and close, and I have to go. I can’t stay.
Eighth grade came. New friends came, and a new crush came. I had never really had anything with a boy. And at 14, I felt like an outcast. I wanted to be myself so bad, but I felt like I couldn’t. My new friends made me feel accepted. They told me it was okay to embrace my wild side, and they would allow me to explore it. But we all went too far, so far we spend the years that came later trying to let go of so many regrets that we ended up letting go of ourselves. If I knew then that bonds could break so easily, I wouldn’t be so heartbroken.
School was hell. It was a special kind of hell, and it seemed to be perfectly designed for me. A series of constant humiliations and awkward social moments. It seems to be the root of a big part of my insecurities and social phobias, and around the 5th grade, at 11 years of age, my depression was already making me feel like living was unbearable.
I expected more of life, and more of myself. Nothing ever lived to my expectations, and some sort of bullying was always present in my life. Abusive relationships tended to exist through my whole life. Somehow, I attached myself to the people who were most abusive to me. I was bullied by my dad, by other kids, and by myself. I used to want to kill myself over a bad grade, or a criticism.
I was always taught that I was never good enough and I have believed in it through my life. And I am my worst critic. But at 13 I wanted to die, because I believed I deserved to die. It wasn’t because I was ugly, or because I was a bad person, or because no one liked me. I just didn’t see the point in living such a miserable existence. I’ve lived the past ten years with the feeling that I would kill myself and die at a young age. The destructive pattern that followed my teen years come from depression, and that feeling that death is always close. Destructing myself seemed glamorous. I did my best to do it, and I’ve ruined myself, sometimes causing more pain to myself that nothing else could.
I should die, and that was the only thing. It hurt everyday, all the time. The smallest things people did made it hurt and ache even more. I lived with a feeling that someone was sitting on my chest and keeping me from breathing. Like I was always drowning and dying. I felt like everything inside of me was burning, my guts, my eyes, my heart. Everything was pain, and killing myself would end the pain. There never was another reason for dying but to end pain.
I am the source of my pain, or the pain life gave me made me who I am?
This may take months to write, because I whole life is such a huge thing. Life to me was more a feeling that a state of being. Maybe while writing this I will find myself. This is a way to hold into myself.
And we start from the beggining, from the basic aspects of life through a child’s eyes to the fears of a teenager and the self-concious behaviour of a depressed young adult.
My childhood wasn’t what most people would call a happy one. But I was happy. When I was 5, my mom told me the Bible was wrong, and that dinosaurs came before Adam and Eve. Eight years of catholic school can make you really hate religion. But as I grew up, it became more and more clear to me that anger is nothing but unresolved, deeper feelings.
I still have so much rage inside of me. It burns and I feed it constantly, and my anger is the most destructive thing in me.
My parents split up when I was six. I have despized my father since I was 9. The things he did to build up this anger in me aren’t up for being discussed and debated. My dad is a person that has bad relationship and anti social behaviour. He is tough. I am fragile. If you bend me too much, I will break. And he broke me as a child.
When I was 8, I kissed a boy in church. It was my first kiss, and I had no idea that it was supposed to be a big deal. It didn’t mean anything.
At 11, I hated life and I wanted to die.
Actual tears of happiness