Give yourself permission to be sad once in a while. It won’t kill you.
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Give yourself permission to be sad once in a while. It won’t kill you.
Just make it to next year. That part’s easy, right? I’m almost there! Please let me stay a little longer. Maybe I’ll find what I need. Just give me a little more time.
Eternity is a long time. Please stop rushing me. Eternity is patient. It can wait a few more months for me. It can wait a little longer. It can wait. It can wait. It can wait a little longer. I can wait a little longer. I can wait. I can wait. I can wait.
Relationships of all kinds are tested with how they handle their first (or any?) fight.
I’ve had so few fights with friends. I wondered why before I realised that I’m usually ghosted first.
November 26, 2024
Those who plan their own demise can choose exactly how long to grieve their own end before they go.
A friend recently mentioned jealousy in a conversation, which got me thinking…
I don’t get jealous so much. I don’t hate others — I just can get very very sad if I lose something important, and internalize it. I have a problem with myself, not the other.
I suppress the surges, even when I don’t mean to.
They swell, then subside.
I swallow and swallow and swallow them. I push them so far down, I think they must be gone.
Empty in the outer layers, but, underneath, tiny vibrations, too far away to register with a label, yet present enough to remind me of my worth.
Why do I automatically suppress anything that feels powerful, unless (until?) it becomes too strong to ignore?
I’m screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming
to myself, silently
into the dark
hoping for catharsis
but I’m still just as fucked
Some night last week, I had a dream that I can very vaguely remember just a tiny bit of. I dreamed that I admitted myself to a mental health care institution of some sort.
… With many computers… and cats.
I feel like there’s something I’m not willing to admit to myself
But I keep getting closer to uncovering it
I feel like I need to. It’s part of the process. But I’m afraid it’s going to hurt
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something, but not such a big deal. Maybe it’s not very painful at all. Maybe I’m overreacting to a minor discomfort. Maybe it’s something absolutely horrible, something I will hate myself for.