You Don’t Want Kids?

And then they follow up with, I am a single woman, in her 30’s, who does not want children. “OMG! Blasphemy! Won’t somebody please think of the children?!”. Sure, ask literally any of my friends circulating in Facebook-land, it’s an epidemic right now. Babies are popping out left right and centre, and sure, they are cute, squishy, little aliens, who look a bit like us. I suppose that’s a’ight. This is not a plight on babies, and certainly not on those who choose to produce their own adorable little crotch goblins. No, this is simply my open letter to the next well-meaning stranger who asks me about the future of my lady parts.

my kinda partyThe problem with being a woman of a certain age is that suddenly the entire world becomes fascinated with the contents, or lack there-of, of your uterus. So let me just clear that up right off the bat. I am potentially infertile, and I’m not fussed about it. At the spry, young age of twenty-one I went on an experimental form of chemotherapy for a tumour I had in my spine. I was told in no uncertain terms, that as the drug was still in the experimental stage that it was unknown what side effects, if any, it would have on my fertility, and did I want to freeze my eggs just in case? I shuffled awkwardly in front of my dad, my equally unprepared boyfriend, and my male doctor, then shrugged. That was the entire extent of that discussion. I guess I could find out what’s going on in the barren waste-land that is my vagina, but honestly I spend half my life in-and-out of the doctors office anyway, and the only reason I would even care if I’m fertile is so I didn’t freak the fuck out every time I forgot to take my OCP (oral contraceptive pill, for the boys in the back). I have thought about checking it out and donating my eggs, but (and I’ll address this later in more detail), I am not a desirable candidate for making a healthy, happy human. Trust me, no one wants this lady goo! In the words of Queen Bae,“I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.”.

Funny Pictures Of The Day - 43 PicsBeing single just increases outsiders’ anxiety that your God-given gift of producing life may shrivel up like a lifeless raisin before you make use of it…along with your worth as a woman of course (excuse me while I roll my eyes into the back of the head and vomit in my mouth). Allow me to get on my feminist soap box for a moment and ask; isn’t it interesting that men, as non-offspring-growing vessels, do not have the same pressure of their worth forsaking them with age? They can just…be! My god, what an unimaginable freedom. That being said, I truly feel #blessed that I am a woman who simply does not picture myself making my own “miracles”. That’s not to say I don’t see children in my life. Despite the tone of this essay, I like children. I like being around my friends’ kids, and I reserve the right to change my mind at any stage and have my own little cretins.

To quote the always poignant Ben Folds Five:

Ben Folds

“Tell me what I said I’d never do, 

Tell me what I said I’d never say,

Read me off a list of the things that I used to not like but now I think are okay!”.

But, if I’m honest with myself, I think I’d be much happier adopting forty blind rescue kittens, several three-legged dogs, and in the unlikely occurrence that I change my mind and want a small human to hang around and worship me, I would adopt. Obviously because I’m such a kind-hearted person with a giving soul…psych! It’s because no poor unsuspecting child deserves to be forced into my sickly gene pool. This shit is whack.

Meowzers, quelques jours sont juste un peu plus difficile que d’autres non ? Parfois, vous voulez juste pour se lover dans le lit et se blottir chats autant que possible. Juste au cas où votre lit n’est pas assez grand pour la quantité de chats vous avez besoin, pourquoi ne pas faire les choses un peu plus simple et égayer votre journée et votre maison par ce cadrage anti affiche de chat kitty antidépresseurs ? Assurez-vous de prendre un un jour ! L’affiche est livré en format A3 (297 mm x 4...

Isn’t it wild how your teens and early twenties are all about avoiding pregnancy at all costs? It is drummed into our heads from a young age that pregnancy is quite literally the most terrifying thing that can come out of having sex (LOL!). Then one day you wake up and you’ve missed the calling of some invisible body clock, relentlessly ticking away as it hunts you down like the clock-swallowing crocodile from ‘Hook’ (always with the modern references). Suddenly friends are talking at you about ovulation and minivans, and mucous plugs and family ‘vaycays’, and whether or not you are going to freeze your eggs, and all I can think about is poached or scrambled with my avocado toast (coz millennial)! It is crazy overwhelming and also extremely gross. Please, and I mean this with all the love and respect in the world; please never mention your mucous plugs to me. I am not now, nor ever will be emotionally prepared for that shit. Thank you in advance.

Hi, This is a blog dedicated to Sex and The City, Here I'm going to post photos, quotes, songs, videos and screencaps. If you can find someone to love the you you love ... well that's fabulous! Carrie Bradshaw.♥ Please do not steal my pictures (screencaps) and do not steal my picture erase my blog's name and post as your own, there's a reblog button for a reason... if you do I hope you get hit by a monster truck.. just kidding I'm not that mean. But I hope something bad happens to your ...

To the well-meaning people who look desperately into my eyes and say variations of, “You will never love anything like you love your child!”. First of all, rude. Stop saying this to people. Secondly you’re probably right. I believe a mothers’ love is probably very different to any other form of love I have experienced. Just as romantic love is different to familial love, which is different again to self-love, or the love of a dear friend. This might be a controversial response, but… I don’t want to love anything that much. I truly, truly don’t. It scares the living shit out of me. To me it doesn’t fill me with warmth and hope, thinking about the unborn spawn of my loins. I feel a premature grief. I don’t want to feel like my heart is living “outside my body”. That sounds completely terrifying to me!

The fear is one thing, but the love is another. The way my brain experiences love is extreme. Romantic love is often so intense for me that it is both physically and emotionally painful. I cannot for the life of me imagine the pain of loving a tiny, sweet, helpless, little human that needs me. I can feel the burden of heart-aching love in my chest as I write this. My legs are tense and my chest tight, my breathing has physically changed, and may I remind you…I am writing about a non-existent child!

Nobody cares??? Try again. YOU obviously do. You can't stay away from my Pinterest and criticize every aspect of my life. Try again, Molly.I once had a dream that I had adopted a gorgeous little boy. When I woke up I cried for days, pining for my little Edwardo to return to me! I grieved my pretend, Mexican, dream baby! I am an insane person. Imagine if I actually made my own human, reared it (is that human children? Sounds like something you’d do to a cow), loved it more than anything, and then something horrible happened to it. Every time my child got sick, or bullied, or experienced heartbreak, I would also be heartbroken, and then what use am I? Maybe I am strong enough to handle that, who knows, but I do know that if given the choice, I’d rather not.

HOPE..... The pain goes away.... They find a cure for Chiari!!!Children are these creatures of innocence that represent hope, right? Well, I as a pessimist must ruin everything beautiful and good, so here goes. I remember seeing a teen/coming of age movie staring a young Christina Ricci and Demi Moore when I was in high school. You know the ones; someone gets their period while wearing white jean shorts, and someone else stuffs their bra with tissues to impress pre-pubescent boys. Demi’s character, Sam, was talking about why she didn’t want children, and honestly, nothing has ever made more sense to me. The scene went like this:

Roberta (played by Rosie O’Donnell): “I think you’ll make a great mum Chrissy, a little overbearing and rigid, but by the grace of God the kid will come out relativity unharmed, if not there’s always therapy.”.

Samantha (Demi Moore):This whole baby thing baffles me, I mean you have it, you raise it, you inevitably screw it up, it resents you, feels guilty for resenting you and then it has a baby, which only perpetuates the vicious cycle.”. 

Roberta:Thank you, Oscar The Grouch.”.

In a nut shell that’s why I choose not to reproduce. So you can blame my private school education for that one! But hey, it made sense to me. If I don’t have kids, I can’t fuck them up. You can’t traumatise someone who doesn’t exist! That’s science bitches.

 

Image result for science bitchesAdditionally, have you seen the state of the world (said in Chandler Bing’s voice naturally)? The amount of people I know in their thirties with serious/lifelong illnesses is shocking. Without getting too deep down the rabbit hole, I believe it is because the earth is sick and people are stressed. I mean, Donald mother-fucking Trump is president, our fishies are full of trace plastics (which we in turn ingest), and there is not enough grain to sustain the amount of meat we are producing, even though half of which we are throwing out because we cannot consume it before it rots! I could go on, but it’s too depressoccino (that’s the worst word I’ve ever made up so I am forced to leave it in here to challenge my fragile ego. Abuse me, I deserve it)!

Crazy Ex-GirlfriendWe all know the world is in trouble and yet we keep reproducing. The population problem is out of control and we are running our unsustainable resources into the ground. Now, this isn’t to say I really give a shit. I mean it sucks but what more can we as the ‘little guy’ do? I recycle, I use public transport when I can, I limit my meat consumption, and I don’t use plastic straws because turtles are the adorable grandparents of the ocean. But I am a nihilistic pessimist and I don’t have much hope that the children of our generation won’t be living in a Mad Max style environment, fighting to the death for a drop of clean water. There are too many people hanging about for my liking, and people stress me the fork out! I can count the amount of people I like on one hand! What if my kid’s an arsehole and I’m forced to unconditionally love him for the rest of eternity, because parenthood? Ew.

That's not very nice, now is it?Anyone worked with kids? I ask because I truly believe we wouldn’t have a population problem if everyone who was thinking about having children was forced to spend an extended amount of time with them before they commit to the idea. I get having a baby is a fun concept, and that (most) people have this animalistic instinct to reproduce. I do understand. Even I, with my ice-cold heart, hit twenty-eight and my hormones lost their baby-making minds! I would cry with joy when I saw babies in prams, I wanted to jump everything that moved, and I desperately wanted eighteen ankle biters, YESTERDAY! But within a year it passed. I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t gotten pregnant to a nameless chap at a very drunken beer festival in the mountains of Italy (hypothetically…), and I once again chastised myself. Actually I lie, it didn’t just pass. I went on the contraceptive pill for my psychotic brain that fluctuates between homicidal and suicidal tendencies once a month during PMS. And although I am no longer experiencing those feelings (score!), I have been left with zero sex drive. Zero. Zip. Zilch. NADA! I’ve essentially been chemically castrated by the pill… but hey, better than murder (as I always say)!

Image result for is this parentingWhen I ask about working, or spending an extended amount of time around a group of mini sex-trophies, I’m not talking about an hour or two babysitting your sisters’ kids while she’s at hot yoga. I’m talking eight plus hours of out-of-school-hours’ care, primary school teaching, live-in nannying, or looking after a baby who has been hooked to mums boob since the day it was set free of its womb-locker, and screams like a banshee in anyone else’s care. Non-stop. For hours (by the time mum came home we were both crying, and hated each other more than I ever thought it humanly possible). No, I’m talking having to run around and be entertaining while nursing the hangover from hell. Or cutting and pasting for six hours straight, while a five-year-old by your side is screaming because he’s eaten all the Clag and he’s still hungry! Or god forbid you get a cold. Parents are not allowed to get sick. You don’t get a full day of rest when you have the flu, you can’t curl into a ball and cry for your mummy when you get your period, and forget about just having an ‘off day’, because there is a tiny human that needs to be taught how to exist in the world. I don’t even know how to exist! Bear Grylls says that if you are cold and lost in the wilderness that you should crawl into the belly of an antelope. Does that help? Am I parenting yet?

Image result for cool grandma instagramIf you have or want children, please don’t take any of the shit I’m spouting as personal judgement. This is purely about my choices. Me, me, me! I am an unusual case because my emotional intelligence is probably stuck somewhere in the fourteen to fifteen-year-old mark, whereas my physical body is likened to that of an 80-year old woman with degenerative disease. I know, hot right? I am not the norm (understatement of the year). I am a sleepy gal, who is constantly in pain or sick with one thing or another. I am essentially one of those sickly children you see in renaissance paintings; lying pale and fragile in their mothers’ arms. Fun fact; most of them are already dead when the painting is taking place. Is that a fun fact? See, I shouldn’t be allowed near children! Jesus take the wheel!

Split by omarmajeedIf there is one thing I’m great at, it’s collecting mental illness diagnosis. I have the holy trinity; major depression, social anxiety and bipolar, plus a cheeky number of maladaptive personality traits, just to keep me on my toes. If you’ve ever seen the movie Split, yeah, that should give you a hint into the ‘exciement’ that is my brain hole! So cute you guys! My doctors call me a “complex case” (which my borderline personality finds very validating)because I’m chock full of both chronic mental and physical illnesses. Honestly, invite me to your next party, I swear I’m a hoot! I can’t guarantee which personality will attend, but I can promise it will be unforgettable (and slightly terrifying…)!

Mean girls -- I'm not a regular mom, I'm a cool mom!In all seriousness, having even one mental illness substantially increases the likelihood of death by suicide. I’m going to throw some facts at’cha, so prepare your faces to shocked and mood to despondent. 15% of people diagnosed with bipolar 1 or 2, or MDD (major depressive disorder – that’s not like regular depression, that’s like cool depression…and by cool I mean seriously fucking awful), will die by suicide*. That’s actually die. The percentage of people who make unsuccessful attempts, or simply exist in debilitating sadness which prevents them from general ‘life-ing’ is so high it’s, well, DEPRESSING! These figures increase significantly again when there are co-morbid conditions; meaning there is more than one mental health condition present, or there are additional factors such as addiction, disease, or chronic pain involved. Sufferers of bipolar also have a 10-20 year less life expectancy than the general population. This is due to a myriad of factors including addiction, death by suicide, and the added risk of stress-related health conditions such as cancer, diabetes and heart disease*. As someone with ALL of the mental illnesses (my mum calls me creative!), additional chronic pain and illness, and a serious history of addiction; quite frankly it’s a miracle I’ve made it this far. Not to be a buzz-kill but the statistics aren’t great for a gal like moi! I’m not saying I’m currently drafting my suicide letter, but I am realistic about the fact that my mental illness may eventually be my demise. It’s okay, don’t be sad. You’re lovely. 

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My ‘quirks’ can indeed be channelled into my creativity on a good day. But as moodily glamorous as mental illness and addiction can be portrayed in films featuring cool, sexy people like Heath Ledger and Brittney Murphy, the reality is much more like, well, their reality; prematurely dying alone, with a mixture of prescription pills scattered across the bedside table. The days when my brain has decided to take a sanity sabbatical look more like this; sleep, so much sleep, crying hysterically, watching fourteen straight hours of reality television (although, I have been known to do this when happy), possibly drinking myself blind, then crying myself to sleep (in a two birds with one stone type situation). Imagine a child in that household. Even if I was able to eliminate the drinking, does a child (or anyone for that matter) want to watch a catatonic adult fade in and out of consciousness for days or weeks on end? Months?
The longest I’ve been suicidally depressed for is two whole years! And you best believe I was trying my hardest to get the hell outta that funk. Meds, phsycho & phsychi appointments, exercise, blah blah blah. Put comatosal depression aside for a minute, what if I slid into bipolar mania and, I dunno, spent my life savings on a useless coconut plantation in Fiji (shout out to my late father who was also bipolar…obviously). No, I can’t put a child through that, and I don’t want to. I don’t blame my dad for anything. He was a genius and a madman and I loved that about him, but there is no denying he was difficult. Just as I am. And when you know better, you do better…or at least I’m giving it my best shot.

It is true that there is a strong and clear line of mental illness on my fathers’ side, and if I am anything to go by, it gets worse with each passing generation. With all the reasons I’ve laid out, this is a big one. I would hate to pass on any of my illnesses to my poor unsuspecting crotch fruit. I’ve had cancer, and that was a ball breaker. But the mental illnesses, and the insidious nature of my chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia are madness inducing, soul-sucking, life-ruiners. For the most part, I struggle my way through life on this mortal coil! I’m pretty sure I was born having an existential crisis. Sometimes it’s bearable and other times it’s not. The hours I have put into fantasising about being a cat are plentiful. What a nice simple life. All I would have to focus on would be whose lap to nap on, and what next to whack off the table nonchalantly. Yes, that is a life I could make sense of.

SpaceAlienInvasionFinally, I’ll answer the question of who will take care of me when I’m old and grey. Well, who the fuck knows? Probably some kind, young, nurse named Charles, who won’t blink an eye when I piss myself, or when I scream bloody murder because I can’t find Pepper; my dead cat of 40 years. Often we naively assume that having children will provide us with a couple of things; 1. We will be returned the same unconditional love we have gifted them, and 2. That the love they have for us will be enough for them to want to take care of a mental old loon who thinks you are the house-keeper that keeps stealing her jewellery! I know, I’m the most depressing person in the world! I’m sorry! My mother is an angel and I will gladly(-ish) apply talcum powder to her sweaty under-boob when she’s a decrepit old crone (love you mum!). I’m just saying, nothing is certain, and not everyone can be lucky enough to have a daughter as generous and self-sacrificing as me! It’s just not fair!

I’m just realising that it’s interesting I would rather reject the concept of my unborn (and unfertilised) egg-child now, before it ever gets the opportunity of rejecting me first. Yeesh. I think the roots of this might go a little deeper than I ever anticipated… but just to be safe, I better stop writing before I learn too much about my inner child-baring psyche and accidentally start reproducing! I scurred.

 

Ben Folds Five – ‘Do it Anyway’

 

*Links re. mental illness facts:

 

Only the Heartbroken

Love.

Oh, what a cruel trick we’ve been sold.

She lures us in with promises of comfort and protection.

Loneliness a thing of the past, with its friend, rejection.

 

She entices and consume us,

As we in turn absorb her.

We allow her intoxicating fumes into our lungs,

Swill her ‘round our mouths like top-shelf whiskey.

Lick her up, don’t miss a single drop.

Suck her pipe dry.

Huff her like paint thinner until our insides start to disintegrate and die.

 

Soon we cannot live without her

Toxifying this body, my home.

But she tires of us, like we tire of her.

Only, while we are left desperate, clawing, craving more,

She still holds her original sinful allure.

 

Her sensuality, as her currency.

There is nothing I would not give for just one more night.

But for what?

Hope.

The delusional, manipulative cousin of Love herself.

 

We play Russian roulette with our emotions.

With Love, the gun.

Just a sweet little game we play with our hearts.

Bang bang. You’re dead.

That was fun.

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I am deathly afraid of her.

What if she sneaks back in?

It seems the whole world’s ensnared by her.

What if she never comes again?

 

Only the heartbroken know her true face.

The wolf that lies beneath her obnoxious charm, and waits.

I miss her facade oh, so well.

I’ll eat the apple. I’ll never tell.

 

Serpentine she spirals up your body,

Wrapping you up in her warm embrace.

She holds you tighter than you’ve ever been held,

You’ve never felt so safe.

 

Pierced with venom, sickly sweet,

You swear you’ll live like this forever.

Apple candy. Rotting teeth.

She promises,

“I’ll never leave you, never”.

 

She’s the drum in your chest.

The flush of warmth coursing through you.

She’s lightness at its lightest.

She’s double rainbow just for you.

 

She’s that grip in your groin making you feel reborn.

She’s inspiration, and adventure,

She’s comfort, she’s home.

She’s neurones firing and falling in lust.

There’s a party in your brain and everyone wants to fuck.

 

It’s chemical. It’s opium. It’s self-made heroine.

I’m withdrawing from a memory,

An addict of connection.

 

Please love me.

Beg the victims of love obsession.

Please love me,

Or drug me.

Let chemical love rid us of rejection.

In Love & On Medication Space To Grow Medium

Auburn

Auburn is my mother,

Maple leaves a mark from home. 

I snuggle in her gentle arms

As she whispers, “You are strong”. 

 

Auburn is an oak tree,

Sturdy and robust. 

Beneath I write some cheesy song,

About the object of my lust. 

 

Auburn colours romance,

But not a one brand new. 

It’s comforting and worn,

Like your favourite pair of shoes. 

 

Auburn was my father,

Rising with the sun for work. 

His briefcase packed with boring things,

 Now I wish I’d cared to look. 

 

Auburn were her lips when she cackled wild and free.

Auburn burnt the paper as she singed a joint for me.

 

Auburn were her eyes,

Right before I closed them. 

I’d imagined they’d be milky,

Like a fish I’d just unfrozen.

A crude thought I know…

But how was I to have known? 

She’d be as lovely as the day we met,

Hospital bed, her throne. 

 

I sit here blonde and ashy.

She liked me auburn haired. 

Fiery”, she told me,

Like she knew me,

Like she cared. 

 

Auburn was my heart, As it broke not it two but three.

And auburn were my fingers, 

Next to hers blue… 

Leaving me. 

 

You are my home

Borderline Love

Source: theincompletechronicleI learnt far too late in life that the way we individually experience romantic love is not necessarily how anyone else feels it. Discovering this legitimately confused and shocked me. It has changed the way I now view my past relationships, and has made me much more cautious moving forward with future ones. In truth, I really should have figured it out sooner. I understood that the way we experience other emotions varies dramatically, but for some reason I hadn’t quite gotten there with love. I always believed that the level of intensity I felt while falling, or in love, was naturally reciprocal. That if my heart lights up like a thousands suns when you walk in a room, and longs so painfully for you when you walk away, surely something so intense cannot be felt alone? But the more I’m learning about my emotions and mental health, the more convinced I become that in fact, nobody has ever loved me at the intensity that I have loved them. And that’s not coming out of modesty or self-deprecation. I say that from a place of discovery, that perhaps my version of love is not quite healthy, and is certainly not the norm.

Image result for sexy french depressionAs someone with maladaptive personality traits I tend to experience the world at a much higher emotional intensity than the average bear. I used to call the way I romanticised, obsessed, and wallowed in heartache; passionate. I would think of myself as some kind of sexy, fiery Latina (think Salma Hayek), whose temper just enhances her charm. Whereas in actual fact I think I’m more of the psychotic, murders-you-in-your-sleep type; Erika Christensen in ‘Swimfan’ style (circa 2002. That’s as up to date as my references get).  However, in order to grow I believe I need to be more honest with myself. Ew.

T shirt for MoriartyI’ve heard other people with Borderline Personality Disorder describe their experience of living with the condition as feeling as though they are walking around with third degree burns. This isn’t in relation to physical pain, but rather that they feel emotionally raw, sensitive, wounded, and exposed 24/7. This I can relate to. I rarely experience a healthy balance of emotions. I don’t experience sadness; I skip ahead to debilitating despair. Anger becomes a storm of uncontrollable rage and aggression. Happiness is overtaken by euphoric mania, and love…love becomes an all-consuming obsession.

Afternoon Imagination

Having lived with the condition of “love”, and the disease of addiction, I can honestly say that for me, there is no more powerful drug on planet earth than love. I am a hard-core addict when it comes to falling in love. And just like drug addiction, it is so deliciously moreish, but quickly becomes painful, messy, and completely overpowering. When in love, I have no self-control. I can’t function effectively in daily life, I can’t concentrate for long periods, and I am rarely content. It is simultaneously way too much, and never enough. It’s truly a horrible mess, but fuck me, is it good.

Yummy❣️ @SssyGrlyI acknowledge that perhaps I do not know what “true love” is, and sadly, perhaps I will never know the calm, peaceful version of love that I see those around me enjoy. This thought truly devastates me. But whenever that crosses my mind I just come back to the knowledge that we all experience love differently, both personally and throughout different periods of our lives. I believe that young children who experience, what we adults like to diminish by calling “puppy love”, to be their true experience of love. I believe unrequited love to be just as real as reciprocal love. And I believe that my obsessive, intense, and often difficult experience of love to be valid, if uncommon.

After all it’s just a word. Love. A word we have attached meaning to based on the amount of Hollywood rom-com’s we have watched, or the way in which our parents showed love, or how it felt the first time you heard that one Jewel song that broke you into a million pieces. It’s just one tiny, little, insignificant, life-changing, ball-breaking, mother fucker of a word.

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Love is patient, love is kind…”, is never going to be my mantra. If I am to be brutally honest with myself, I’m more like Lennie from ‘Of Mice and Men’ (another topical reference for you). Suffocating and smothering, stuck to you like a barnacle, in the hopes that the tighter I cling on, the more you will love me back. Unfortunately, like  Lennie and his overwhelming love for his adorable little puppies, who’s little necks were not quite strong enough for his overpowering love and affection; my love ultimately creates more heartache than it’s worth.

İlk görüşte Aşk olması halinde camı kırın

Love has always felt this way to me. From crushes I clung onto with painful longing for six years throughout high school, to men whom I would fall in love at first glance with from across the bar, to long-distance relationships that crossed land and sea. Whether or not someone became significant in my life, it has always begun at lightning speed and hit me like a tonne of bricks. I fall hard and fast. To quote Rhianna, “I’m 0-60 in 3.5”. I don’t know, it’s some kind of fast car metaphor. Just go with it!

#shopbirdbee #birdbeedetroit www.shopbirdbee.com

Falling in love with my ex was an unbearably agonising, intensely beautiful, irresistibly mesmerising experience. He was the only person I have ever loved that started as a comforting whisper, rather than a glass shattering SCREECH! Possibly because deep down I knew he wasn’t right for me, or perhaps because it was the most “real” experience of love I’ve had to date, and good things take time. Who’s to say? In any case, falling took a little longer but eventually crept up on me, hitting 10 X harder than ever before. The Kerouac-esk roman candles erupted inside of my heart, brain, and body simultaneously and, shit, I was in love.

#wallpaper #tom #tomandjerry #vintage #edit #filter #iphone #love #eyes #cartoon #fade #cute #sad #meme #mood

Back when I was young, and cared what impression I made on people, I was much better at pretending I wasn’t psychotic. I could stare wistfully at the man of my affections with love in my eyes, and hide the excruciating urge to wrap my arms and legs around him, forcing him to wear me everywhere like a human backpack. My ex and I were as close as two people could physically and emotionally be, but I was still craving more. Always more. It really was like an addict chasing after that first blissful high. I remember constantly wanting to be closer to him. Needing to be closer. Our bodies intertwined, skin to skin, so closely I could feel his heartbeat. Completely open to each other with full vulnerability, completely and utterly absorbed in our individual experience of love, and yet, all I could think about was how sad it was that this was as close as it would ever be. I could feel the love bursting from every cell of my body, but it wasn’t enough because we were still individuals. I genuinely lamented the fact we weren’t puddles of water that could just melt into one another and become inextricably merged forever. That’s truly mental isn’t it? It’s ridiculous seeing your emotions played out in words, because you undoubtedly sound like an angsty teenager writing def poetry, but that is honestly how I felt. I wonder if I’ll ever feel like that again. Part of me so badly hopes I do, but the other half of me is more content without the blurred lines of loving and needing someone in such an extreme way.

With you alwaysNow that I have been single for almost three years, I can reliably say I am a much more content, balanced version of myself when I am alone. I wish I could resign myself to a life of solitude. Purely celebrating friendships (which inexplicably I’m not bad at maintaining), connecting to people through writing and music, laughing with strangers, and occasionally having wild and/or simple casual sex. But I can’t. For better or worse (till death do us part), I believe in love. I adore love. J’adore l’amour! The more I write, the more I find myself exploring the different layers, colours, and textures of love. I find it so endlessly fascinating, and equal parts euphoria inducing and excruciatingly painful.

I believe that the meaning of life (if we simply must have one), is to love and be loved. To that I can hear my psych in my head saying earnestly, “Yes, to love oneself.”. Of course my adult brain knows she is right, that my life would be so much gentler if I put as much energy into loving myself as I do others. However, that is a life-times worth of work, so why not explore the world of lovely, fascinating, crazy, beautiful characters, as a parallel passion project? Falling in love and ultimately breaking my own heart, repetitively… until I die. On second thought maybe I… be right back, *calls therapist*. Help.

Jealousy Quotes : QUOTATION – Image : Quotes Of the day – Description La jalousie / Jealousy (2013) Sharing is Power – Don’t forget to share this quote !At the end of the day our lives are just stories. It’s just art being played out in real time, and that is both stunningly beautiful, and heartbreakingly tragic. At least that is how my dissociative brain views the world. It is almost like looking down a camera lens, and back at your own life (think ‘The Truman Show’). So as pretentious as I know this sounds, it really is how a lot of borderlines or DID’s (dissociative identity disorder) experience life. This in itself can be a catalyst for intense behaviour and acting out. As a child I remember always feeling like I needed to “put on a good show!”, without ever knowing who I was performing for or why. I suspect I was trying to make sense of the dissociative ‘camera in my head’. I think that is partly why I love, and generally feel with such intensity. I struggle to be comfortable within the natural experience of love, because for the most part, love is quiet. It is peaceful and calm, which is beautiful, but doesn’t really ‘play’ well on screen. I do wonder if growing up feeling that strong sense of performance in daily life has effected me more than I know. That’s not to say any acting out is a conscious choice. The anxiety triggered by the fear of abandonment is a major driver for volatility in love. I’m just musing.

LanaQuote is a tumblr blog dedicated to Lana Del Rey. We specially post Lana Del Rey's quotes and...I am trying to learn to find comfort in the more serene parts of relationship, but as someone who has endured a lifetime of being guided by emotions, and believed that the more extreme the reaction, the more intense the love, this is a work in progress.

Anyway, how hard can it be? Love. After all, it’s just a simple, four letter, harmless, little word…

 

 

 

“Gramma” – Lizzie Grant, AKA Lana Del Rey

Gramma said she’ll leave the lights on for me
Gramma said the flags are waving for me
Gramma said that somewhere out there there’s a good man
Waiting for me

A.M.E.R.I.C.A.
All I wanna do is play
See the city every day
Pretty party nation

Tell me that you think I’m good
Happy that I make you glad

‘Cause I don’t wanna think I’m bad, Gramma
I don’t wanna think I’m bad

Gramma said she’ll leave the lights on for me
Gramma said the flags are waving for me
Gramma said that somewhere out there there’s a good man
Waiting for me

T.R.O.U.B.L.E.
Trouble’s what feels good to me
Crazy as since I was three
Now I’m out to get you

But I’d have bet that lately, Ma
And I’m in love with everyone
And I don’t wanna think I’m wrong
Just for feeling pretty

Gramma said she’ll leave the lights on for me
Gramma said the flags are waving for me
Gramma said that somewhere out there there’s a good man
Waiting for me

I wanna be the whole world’s girl, gramma
I wanna be the whole world’s girl
I wanna be the whole world’s girl, gramma

Tell me, do you think that’s wrong?

Don’t cry, honey, crazy girl
Don’t you know you are the world?
Every time you feel unsure
Try to remember what you are

 

The Invisible People

 

I like people who have survived or are surviving. I like people who are open with their vulnerabilities, “failures”, and desperation. I like those that despite the protective layers of armour they have built up around them, their heart still bursts free of their chest like a child that has yet to be hurt. Because when you have been forced to survive against all odds, you truly understand the value of even the smallest expressions of love. It’s not that you will always be able to offer it. In fact, in times of survival, when your tap is completely run dry, sometimes all you can do is take from others. The times I’ve been in survival mode have been some of the most selfish and needy of my life. But that is when you learn the value of a kind face, or a helpful gesture. When you feel completely alone in the world it means everything for someone to see you and not overt their eyes, despite how ugly survival may make you. And I’ve been real ugly.

 I call us, ‘the invisible people’. We are the people society either shuns intentionally or simply forgets. The elderly; tucked quietly away in homes. The epitome of “out of sight, out of mind.”. The homeless; who are almost the polar opposite. They are in your face at the station where you get off for work, they interrupt your night out asking for money so that they might eat, or god forbid, spend it on drugs to feel good for a few minutes. These people are not hidden, but they are not seen. I’m not sure which is worse. I get along with criminals and people who live on the fringe of society. It’s so easy to demonise something we don’t understand but if you have really had to survive. I mean, fight for your own life, or that of your families’, not just for a day, but day in, day out, year after year; it’s much easier to have compassion for those that ‘break the rules’ in order to survive. People with chronic or long-term illnesses are similar to the elderly. Friends will come and offer support at first, but as they start to realise that you are not getting better, and this is a life-long adjustment, it becomes boring. It’s human nature to shy away from situations that make us feel helpless, and being with a chronically sick person usually highlights that helplessness in us. But it means that many of us with chronic illness become more and more isolated, depressed and of course, invisible.

 The final semester of my degree (2016) was probably the worst time of my life. I almost didn’t return, and in hindsight it was probably too soon to be back. The short version is this; my relationship of 7-years had ended hideously, against my choosing. I’d watched my best friend deteriorate rapidly from brain cancer and subsequently pass away. And my father had died unexpectedly in the Middle East, from circumstances I still find suspicious. This was all in the space of about 5 months. I think that would be enough to make anyone snap but add to that my crippling co-dependency, co-morbid mental and physical illnesses, and the fact that I was now living alone for the first time in my entire life; I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I cried so much I didn’t even know where the tears were coming from anymore. The breaking of my heart was a physical searing in my chest, and convulsive gripping in my gut, that I was convinced would kill me. I truly believed I would die of a broken heart, and I am now sure that is possible. Every second I was awake I either had a drink in my hand, a line up my nose, or a pill down my throat. On a “good” day, all three. But I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to sleep through the grief and wake up when it was done…or just never wake up. Either way, I honestly didn’t care. I was not coping, but despite myself I was going to survive.

stoned-in-parisAnd survive I did… by any means. The means of which I chose was drugs and alcohol. Never one to do anything by halves, I did not hold back. Due to an extensive spinal surgery I had in my early 20’s, I had a fairly regular supply of grade-A opiates on hand at any one time. It was a small problem, but manageable, right up until life wasn’t. And therein lies the Cliff’s Notes version of many a drug addict before me. Recreational drug use + ugly bump in life (maybe throw in a mental health issue as well, just for that extra oomph), = full blown addiction in rapid speed. RDU+UB=A². Look dad, I mathed!

Now I'm fucking falling apart and can't fucking breatheWithin three months I went from almost completely weening myself off the opiate pain killers, to getting withdrawal sweats if I didn’t shove something into my nose, mouth or eyeballs in the space of half an hour. Okay, I wasn’t quite at eyeball level. See, there is always further to fall kids! Of course I don’t endorse this as a survival method, but it cannot be denied that without drugs, I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. Yes, they fucked up my life and health in many ways that will never return to their previous state, but in terms of short-term survival, many days they were the only reason I woke up. Wake up, rack up, snort line, survive (not a bad song lyric actually. Although if you ask 90’s Eminem it probably already is one). This little process would repeat until the day was done or I mercifully passed out. Passing out was the preferred option because then I would get a break from crying, aching, and life-ing.

Freaks • 1932God, I was just so sad. I can’t describe the grief. There aren’t enough sad words in the English language to explain that kind of heartache. Broken. Shattered. Empty. Anguished. Despaired. Tortured. Grief-stricken. Lonely. So fucking lonely. Lost. Agonised. Tormented. Alone. Desperate. Pained. Suicidal.
Put them all together and we are inching closer. I’ve never felt like that before. It was depression, but this was no ordinary depression. This was, end-it-all depression, and it lasted a long time at that intensity. Two and a half years long. So as ugly as I was, and as ugly as the drugs made me, I am grateful for them. They are just one tiny part of my recovery puzzle, but they aided in saving my life.

ViomilaOne of the reasons I resonate so strongly with vagrants, loonies, junkies, and criminals (all said with multitudes of love and affection), is because the only difference I see between myself and them is that I had a supportive family who had the funds, will, and patience to aid in my healing. That is not to be underestimated. There was a moment when my brother dropped everything and drove me to the mental hospital (or as I like to call it; the loonie bin). My insurance didn’t cover my stay there and I had to decide if I wanted to pay the $2500 for a short one week stay, or go spend that same amount of money on street drugs. Two things happened here; 1. If I had been alone I would’ve left, given up on myself and bought the drugs, but I had my brother there to encourage me to better myself. 2. I had the savings in my bank account to pay for the stay. That is a luxury not afforded to many. I may have been a fucking heartbroken, suicidal, junkie, but in that moment, there was no denying I was lucky.

Ladies don't kill, they merely just...interrogate and take away the non-gentleman's breath.

It’s accepted knowledge that people with mental illness are far more likely to develop drug abuse issues, end up involved in crime, in prisons, or living on the streets. Well, I’ve almost got as many mental illnesses as I do fingers, and I was quickly becoming a full blown addict. I was also full of rage, and I was suicidal; meaning I didn’t give a toss about the consequences of my actions. That’s a dangerous combination that could’ve easily lead me to make a seriously misguided decision and ruin the rest of my life.

That's not very nice, now is it?
The grief in me was surfacing as rage. I didn’t know I could be so angry. It was like there was a flame alight inside of me, charring and scolding me from the inside out. I didn’t understand how everyone was walking around so contently while I was on fire in front of them. How could they leave me to burn alive like this! Couldn’t they see I needed their help? I hated them for not seeing it. For not seeing me. My mind was full of violence toward myself and others. But, even though I had given up on everyone, there were still enough people and structures in place that hadn’t yet given up on me.

All-DarksMy psychologist talked me out of ruining my own life on a weekly basis, I had a psychiatrist monitoring my medication, a GP I trusted, and a warm, comforting home to go back to with a loving, if exhausted, family. My mum and brother are my heroes, and I will never forget the last correspondence I ever received from my father. I’d emailed him in the Middle East to let him know I was in the psycho ward (a place I actually remember fondly; a story for another day perhaps). I was unsure how he would respond but he simply replied, “If you had a broken ankle you would be in hospital to mend that too. You are doing the right thing.”. My dad wasn’t always the best with words growing up, but those are some pretty great ones to go out on. Thanks dad.

I was one of the lucky ones. A lot of the people I met who were living on the street could not say the same.

I could no longer relate to anyone at my university. These chipper, healthy, studious, young woman who had goals and dreams to be successful health practitioners (nutritionists) and practiced what they preached. I wore a white coat in the clinic that mocked me as I smoked cigarettes around the back by the bins, and downed my 10th cup of coffee of the day. I was a fucking fraud. My only goal was to get to the end of each day so I could go to the train station liquor store, drink cask wine on the ride home, pass out, and start again in the morning. I related to the men and woman sleeping rough outside the station. We’d smoke together, talk shit and share my lunch. After my dad died I even started filling the pockets of his old jackets with snacks or sanitary products, and handing them out to people in need on cold mornings. I guess I hoped that if I showed someone a small token of love, that maybe it would come back to me. I knew how much I needed it and I didn’t want anyone else to feel as invisible and worthless as I did.

Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt season 3There was a selfish element to it, of course. I saw them, they saw me. It was nice. They saw good in me at a time in my life where everyone else thought I was misguided, pathetic and dark. These connections were incredibly important to me. These people who I saw for a quick cigarette in the morning before rushing off to class, were my friends. They were the people I connected to and I looked forward to seeing each day. They didn’t worry about me like the rest of the world. They had their own shit to worry about. But we appreciated each other in the moment and that was enough. That time in my life was horribly depressing and I’m so relieved to say I have finally turned a corner on it. However, it really helped me learn to be less judgmental, and that every single person has something worthwhile to offer if you are willing to be open to receiving.

… Even that one schizophrenic dude who I was having a perfectly pleasant chat with, until he started earnestly describing how he had just tried to steal a gun from a policeman because the invisible aliens were coming to capture him. I mean they could’ve been, what do I know? They were invisible after all! Ah, what a rare treat he was.*

Image result for e coronaI’m by no means perfectly healed. I didn’t “see the light” and transform myself into a content, clean-living, angelic specimen. LOL! The grief is at a manageable level most of the time now, but of course I still get debilitating waves where I feel my heart crushing in my chest. I still live with chronic mental and physical illness, which naturally brings me down (or up if I’m on a manic swing!). I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not special by any means. Which is great news, because it means that anyone can survive. There was no grit or determination involved. I had nothing left to “fight” with. It was pure endurance. I endured life for as long as it took to survive, and from this place of survival I am now able to work on building a life where I can thrive. I wish I had more advice, as I had desperately wished someone had had for me, but all I can do is leave you with one more quote from my late father, “Just put one foot in front of the other.”. What he meant by this was that as long as we keep moving, no matter how slowly, we will end up somewhere else. Somewhere in the direction of where we want our lives to go. With that I’m learning to enjoy the process over the end goal, and I’ve walked myself out of hell on earth. I am not special. I just survived.

Image result for just keep swimming

*No policeman were harmed in the making of this blog.

 

Nostalgia – ‘That’ Guy

This time last year I was getting ready for my trip to Spain. Missin' it like crazy! :(

Definition of nostalgia. 1: the state of being homesick: homesickness. 2: a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition also: something that evokes nostalgia. – Merriam Webster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

imagem descoberto por 'gabi. Descubra (e salve!) suas próprias imagens e vídeos no We Heart ItA few days ago I had a dream. It was one of those dreams that is felt so viscerally that even upon waking you just can’t shake it. In fact, this particular dream stayed with me all day like a weight on my chest. Now, I am a dreamer by nature. I dream a lot. I have terrible nightmares, beautiful daydreams, and strange fantasies. For better or worse, the majority of my life is spent in my head. But even some of the most gruesome nightmares, or heart wrenching dreams about loved ones passed, haven’t stung me like this.

In concept it was simple; I saw my ex and he told me he loved me. I remember maybe a minute of it, but the sheer intensity, the connection, the detail, that’s what shook me.

i love youI held his strong, comforting arms as he pulled me close. I felt the bristles of his untrimmed facial hair brush my cheek as I burrowed into the crook of his neck. I could smell him. His smell. I had forgotten how sweet, yet earthy it was. Like him; gentle, but grounded. When I looked at him, his blue eyes swallowed me up like pools of water. I could see his every freckle and the deepening crinkles around his eyes. I could see his sadness and his fatigue, but in the way that only I would be able to notice. He was stoic and calm on the outside, as always. I could feel his fingers grip me tightly, keeping me safe and reminding me I am his, but still allowing me space to move and be free. Knowing he could never tame me, and that trying would be futile. He wore his own clothes. His real clothes. Not make believe things I had concocted in my mind. The smell. My heart was aching with a sense of foreboding. Maybe knowing deep down that I was going to wake up. And then he spoke. He said my name. The way only he could say it. The way that reminds you that you belong to someone in the best possible way. The way where you can hear they have said it, let it roll around their mouths and truly felt it thousands of times. It’s not even a name anymore, it’s just you. He gripped my face with his slightly weathered hands, freckled on the backs, with soft palms, and lightly calloused fingers. Hands that have never been raised to me, and only ever brought me pleasure. Hands that know more of my body than I know myself. And he just said, “I love you.”. That’s all he said, over and over. Torturously he repeated, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”. Each time he said it with more certainty, desperate to convince me of the truth behind the words, and with my eyes closed in my nostalgic dreamland, I believed him.

See you tonight.

In truth, he could’ve been saying anything. What he was saying was brutal, but what really stuck with me the whole day was simply hearing the sound of his voice. Three years. That’s how long it has been since I’ve heard that voice. Yet, in the depths of my subconscious, I still know its every nuance. The recreation was faultless. Every infliction and change in intonation that, despite the words being said, would tell me everything about how he is (…was) feeling. Every pause. Every breath between words. The warmth, the timbre, the depth. It was perfect. I was jealous of the words for being inside his mouth. For being part of him. And of all the things he could have said, he chose to say my name. Mine. I felt special before realising my mistake. I’m just a sleepy girl in a room repeating her own name to herself, trying to get it just right. I wonder what my name sounds like from his lips today. I’m sure he wouldn’t even know. I wonder…but I don’t want to know.

The not knowing of the others thoughts leads self to create false world with hopes that never becomeThey say a separation is as painful as a death. For me, this has been true. There are too many significant voices out there that I can never hear again. Voices that have spoken to me before I was even born (my father), and voices of those who have kept me alive with their strength, despite their lives coming to an end. And then there is ‘him’. His voice is still floating around out there somewhere. Saying other peoples’ names with conviction. Avoiding mine. But just like the voice of my father, I will never hear it again. And in his case, I really don’t want to.

Lana Del Rey #LDR #art #This_is_What_Makes_Us_Girls ♡♡♡Nostalgia; a word that paints such a delicate and romantic scene, but in actual fact, is quite cruel. Nostalgia takes (or creates) a beautiful memory and inserts a sense of longing, that by its very nature is unattainable. It is reaching out for something you loved and never being able to touch it again. The nostalgia of my dream created an idealised version of someone who has never existed. The ultimate dream-man, if you will. Whereas in my waking life, this person is demonised as a form of self-preservation. I must make him the baddie in my story or ill never wake up. Why would I if ‘dream-man’ is just a snooze button away? But the truth is that somewhere between these two creations lies some version of the truth. Not a demon, nor a dream. Just a guy doing the best he can. Not someone who could have saved me, or had the presumed power to destroy and break me. Just a guy who entered my heart when I wasn’t quite ready, and overstayed his welcome. Just a guy. 

 

LOL!! Not All The Time But It Happens.. This Girl Talks A Lot Of Shit :)

 

 

On Being A Woman

I've gotten tired of being a doormat so I've been standing up for me and ppl hate it

  • While he is called a leader, I am called a bitch.
  • While I “let myself go”, he gets a dad bod”.
  • I must be sexy, but never “slutty”. Nice and sweet, but not a prude.
  • I must be interesting enough so that he doesn’t stray, but never more interesting than him.
  • I must be charming when appropriate, but fade into the background as required.
  • I am so pathetically grateful for a man that bothers to make me cum that I confuse an orgasm for love. 
  • Between the ages of 20 to 45 I will be constantly asked deeply personal questions about my romantic relationships and reproductive status, despite whether or not I want (or can physically have), a family.Image result for madonna quote about mick jagger

  • If I have career success I must downplay it, because how dare I emasculate him with my income and talent.
  • As the lines on my face become deeper, I become increasingly invisible. As he ages he is seen as more dignified and refined. I must cover my grey hairs ashamedly, while he gets to claim the George Clooney inspired “salt ‘n’ pepper” look.
  • The smile lines around my mouth and eyes present me as infertile, and therefore undesirable. His create character.
  • Because I embrace my sexuality I am labelled a slut. What is the male equivalent for slut?, and I do not mean “man-slut” or “man-whore” because that is just as offensive.
    there isn’t one. at least not one that is equivalent. names like “manwhore” hold nowhere near the same amount of disgust, degradation, or social consequences. slut shame is sexism.
  • I am perpetually single, attracting either emotionless men who are so disengaged that they do not even notice my power, or aggressive men, who wish to beat me into submission with narcissism and control.
  • The nasty men have won, because I now struggle to recognise the decent ones. I forever have my guard up. Image result for smile.broad city
  • My confidence is intimidating and arrogant, while his is powerful and authoritative.
  • He is passionate. I am shrill.
  • I must always be seen to be aspiring to become more beautiful, despite the cost or physical consequence. It is okay if I am not there yet, as long as I never forget that I am not good enough as I am.
  • The blood in my underwear, which connects me to almost every woman on this planet, is more disgusting than the blood on his hands that rises from fear and dominance. We absolutely LOVE getting to talk to fans of HelloFlo about what women empowerment means to them, so of course we were so very excited when Georgia Gibson, an extremely talented artist, emailed us about a recent art installation she did relating to menstruation.
  • I must have nice big tits and a juicy arse, giving him something “to grab onto”, while still maintaining a low enough body weight to be thrown around like a piece of meat. When does my body become my own?The Straights Kill Me (Wow)
  • I must appear submissive.
  • Casually going out with my friends results in my refusal to provide sexual favours for drugs. I am forced to decline politely and cautiously for fear of what aggravating him might lead to, when all I want is to spit in his face and say “I am not your whore!”.
  • In preparation for a one night stand that may never come, I must spend $30 a month on the pill and alter my natural hormone production, because a man I’ve never met is going to be really bad at hiding how pissed off he is when I ask him to wear a condom.
  • .75 cents to your $1 is not equal.
  • I must pretend I am a prepubescent child and eliminate every hair from my body. If ever caught out between waxes, I must apologise profusely with obvious shame, to be granted forgiveness. How dare I show myself as human. His beard is, of course, rugged and manly. @milkteafetish
  • As young as 4-years-old, I have been taught that when a boy teases me and pulls my hair, it’s because he likes me. So, am I to believe when I was dragged down the street by my hair and sexually assaulted, that was because he was just hopelessly love-struck? 
  • From a very young age I am taught that in order to have value in the world I must shrink myself. I must pacify myself as to not make a scene. I must starve myself to the point of weakness. I must sacrifice my own health, happiness and success in order to maintain “value” in this patriarchal society. Suppressing myself to elevate him. Yes! !!!  #Feminism #Equality #Feminist
  • “I was scared he might beat me to death, and “I didn’t want to embarrass him.”These are the two major reasons woman will do something they don’t want to do, and usually the second is because of fear of the first.

    Feminism is the radical notion that women are people.