I originally published this on my tumblr first, but I’d figure I’d drop it here too.
the first step is always acceptance and I accepted that these terrible things happen rather they be random acts of violence or forces beyond my control but I still have these flashbacks and my mind makes up these scenarios and I really
I don’t know I just end crying when the night visits me, always without fail and unless I’m reading or talking to someone or watching something I can’t feel at ease, ever and there’s only so much you can write about because your vocabulary has a finish line and you’ve crossed it, you’ve crossed it so many times, these words mean absolutely nothing, they’re redundant, probably get annoying because the rhythm gets repetitive and you’ve heard it all already
it gets to the point where these thoughts become broken records, they loop, playing over and over and over and over
The needle is too fucking heavy and I literally can’t make it stop, I’ve tried, I really have, you can’t say I haven’t
And that’s probably why I can’t even sleep, you know
Because it happens
Doesn’t matter how much cute shit I read or watch over and over
Lately people have been shooting my ears with questions like “Why do you like to write?”, and I’ve been caught off-guard every time, not really having a reason to like what I do or even know why I do it. I can counter with “Why does anyone do anything?”, but my own answer leaves me feeling unfulfilled and empty.
Why do I do something that I like and try so hard, when I probably won’t ever make it anywhere? Why do I take time out of my life and strain my eyesight, wrack my brain for words to form sentences I haven’t seen yet. How many words do we have in our vocabulary to make a new sentence? How do I know that what I’m saying doesn’t already exist?
I don’t know. Those are way too many questions.
But I–I don’t know why I like writing, per say. I like how words make emotions and experiences eternal. I like how personal they are, written down and kept forever. I like how everyone reads it in their own voice, adding their own meaning and sighing because they find bits and pieces of themselves in these words.
I like making things? I like creation, I should say. I like coming up with worlds and people and societies, and I like watching them grow or destroy.
I don’t know, I like it because I like other things so–it’s just my second nature? An affinity I have? A talent I’ve developed over time?
It’s not rude to ask why somebody cut their hair. The most you’re probably going to get is that they like it that way. Nothing too inspirational. But then there’s the “But why? I like it better when it was longer.”
And that’s just–come on.
I don’t care what you liked better. It’s my hair, right? Why do you feel the need to ask just to tell me that you don’t like my haircut? There’s literally a difference when you don’t like something because it doesn’t look good, or because you prefer longer hair, on just about everyone.
I just feel really shitty and anxious now. I feel weird in my own skin? I was so perfectly fine. I liked myself. I was liking myself for a long time. I can’t even look at clothes I want without feeling weird about everything right now.
And it’s just hair. It shouldn’t matter.
But it does, you know? It’s more than just hair. It’s how I express myself. My hair gives me confidence. My hair gives me a sense of identity that clothes don’t and I don’t want to hear what you like for me better. I don’t care what you like for me better. Whatever you like just isn’t good for me. It doesn’t work. I’m not you, and you don’t know what it’s like to feel how I feel right now.
I’m just so upset. I’m so uncomfortable in this body right now. I shouldn’t be. I can’t shake this feeling though. I can’t stop shaking my leg, or push down the ball of panic and anxiety in my stomach. It’s so stupid and I want to cry but I just shouldn’t.