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calirosegold: loveexistskeepbreathing: floralbliss: harrypooptter: sup-lauren: this and good male company is all i need i like the simple things i can live just with this, a hot shower and good food. this is just so perfect exactly what i want ^ on the floor? on the motha fuckin floor?? with all the damn spiders and pincher bugs crawling around and into your bed??? laying eggs in your damn ears??? falling into your mouth????? no, no im good with my high bed. i agree with the male company but fuck the bed. 
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everybody-keeps-scoring: couldyoustaythistime: schizophrenic-psychopath: I know, just another scar picture. Some of you have seen the other picture, the night I did this. I don’t have a sweet recovery story for you, or a tale of love. I don’t even know if this has a happy ending. But I can tell you that if you’re dead inside, you’re numb, the world’s full of dumbfucks and you’re too weak to off yourself with that hidden bottle of pills, slashing up and down your arms and legs is NOT the answer. Now you have cuts and burns and bruises to hide, scars to cover. That fear of sight. Sitting at night with your sleeves rolled up, rubbing anything into your skin so you can show your arms again. Hoping they’ll fade before you have to wear short sleeves, hoping that maybe, you won’t be judged and punished for your idea of survival. I know the pain, the numbness, the wanting to scream until someone finally gets that you’re more than a little fucked up, that you’re fighting insanity with its own blade. Its own flame, its own fist. To dream of cuts, to be hurt and have your first thought be self harm. I know that, I get it, I understand. I know that sometimes all the people in the world could truly care and you’d still hurt yourself, because you have to. I know that it doesn’t just disappear one day, that it’s always a battle, a what if, a how. I’ve stopped, for now. Probably around fifteen days “clean”, so to speak. I’ve stopped, because I look at my arms and thighs and see a shackle. I can’t live, I can’t even dress myself the way I want to. My favourite clothes, my workout outfits. Getting to know guys, and I can’t even pass kissing because I have dark, binding scars. So I know you’re dying, you’re dead. Not physically, of course, but pretty close. Bleeding and bashing stirs your soul, triggers the adrenaline. Breaks the walls. But I beg you, each one of you forgotten lovelies, to punch pillows, to scream into blankets, to drive miles and miles blaring 90’s alternative rock or One Direction. Don’t self harm, not now, not ever. Life will hurt you enough without you having to hurt yourself. Don’t live with this fear and regret, don’t fall off the edge just yet.. It’s so terribly hard to “be strong” because it “gets better.” So try just a little bit, each day, distract yourself. And when you fail, not if, get back up. You might not be strong enough yet, but you will. We’ve fought hell, we’re living in hell. We’re the most kickass people in the world. Try again. this is the only triggering picture I will ever post. only because of the caption. i love you. thank you. Oh my god
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view-from-up-here: dream view
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livingforthefamexoxo: (1) depressed | Tumblr auf We Heart It. http://weheartit.com/entry/59781011/via/RAKD
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