Self Loathing - Tumblr Posts

“if you have letters to write,you have a reason to stay.”

So that means I can finally dip???

“Who hurt you babygirl?”

actually myself🥰

Oof what a difficult choice

The funny part is that, I do not even want to die.

I am just genuinely left with no options.

Me: *faking smile**faking my feelings**trying to act like nothing is wrong**pushing myself to be mentally stable**hiding my problems so others won't worry**too tired to do anything else* Haaa

Parents: Do something

Parents: You never do anything

Parents: You only think about yourself

Parents: You're such a useless daughter

Parents: I hope I can send you to your aunt instead

Parents: You always disappoint us

Brain: See, even your parents don't want you, they want you to disappear from their life, go die!

Does anyone else ever get the urge to just... Randomly become lightly violent to themselves in public for a few seconds? That then you may or may not act upon?

Like, do you ever see your own reflection in a window or something, and then your internal monologue just runs for a few seconds, until it randomly comes across something that somehow fires a few neurons into each other in a millisecond that land on "Fuck that person in the reflection they deserve to die" and then you, like... Shout, or bite yourself, or slap yourself lightly, or something like that, half to break your own train of thought and half because the emotions your brain just randomly sprung on you felt like they require an intense reaction? Because that... Just happened to me. Stuff like that happen to me a lot, and they don't always require a mirror or something, sometimes my internal monologue just lands on "hey you should die in agony" for a second, and I have to either pinch myself or say it out loud to make it stop, bystanders be damned. Is that... Just me?

The Painting

"I love you, you weirdo"

I looked with love as I told you. In a world of grays, you were my pallette of paint. Your stupid habits. Your weird jokes. I loved all of it. I was an empty canvas and I let you paint me. You kicked my easel without a care.

I watched as you continued on. You didn't say it. You didn't say it back. I felt embarrassed. I turn red. My canvas of blood, anger and hatred. I turn green. I turn blue. I turn purple. I paint myself of you. Your truth.

Tired. Tired. Tired. Third time's a charm. I laugh. Humourless. I paint myself over you. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. A new story.

I paint myself of me. My truth. I turn pink. I turn white. I turn turquoise. I am colour. I am blank.

I am me.

My truth.

My painting

I paint myself of me.

Poetry

I loved you to the brink of poetry.

Insignificant words written on the torn pieces of my confessions.

I have lost the coherency of time and I seek out the cogs to wind us back.

My words don't make sense...but if it had was it even worthy of being called love....or better, poetry.

Like a raving lunatic I write day and day but these sentences flow out in a cacophony I do not understand nor that I care

The candle light illuminates my yearning in the old attic where the memories are safeguarded.

Everyday I wait is a day I lose myself

I love you too much

I love you to the point of senseless paragraphs

I love you to the point of poetry

TW: ED mentions and self loathing

I starve myself as a form of invisible self harm so that way I can get the satisfaction of hurting myself while also achieving weight loss. I am not comfortable in the shell I occupy and and damaging my body brings comfort.

Unable to survive in peace because chaos is all I know. I want someone to notice and ask about how am I but I also don't wanna answer judgements. And I do not wanna annoy people, they have better things to do.

So I rot in my bed endlessly while I scroll Pinterest looking at bodies and faces I wish I had.

It's like I'm attached to my own sickness.

I hate how it defines me but

Who am i without it?

Sometimes I just have to gaslight myself into thinking that my trauma isn't that serious and that people went through worse so I can get on with my life and not fixate on it.

I love being alone because then nobody can make me feel unwanted.

if i could, i think

i wish i could reboot, rewind, refresh.

i'm really hating it all, and who i am and was.

time not well wasted, regrets.  too bad i can't wish hard enough and i could rewind.

maybe i was coddled to much.

Again....too tired to cut

You are not enough.

Not because of the lack of a certain organ, nor the curls with no smell, or the cigarette in you hand (not even the inexistent habit). In fact, is quite the opposite. It's those eyes smeared in obsidian, the fabric that covers your body, the ink spilled by your pen when at home, spending sleepless nights fulfilling with diligence your duty, your purpose.

It is that, in a way; you have a purpose. A hammer and chisel that was used upon you and that now you wield yourself. The scolding of one and the absence of another. Masks in the walls that both protect and judge.

It's the invisible decisions, the series of events that brought you to me. The fact that I found you without looking; that I have you without struggling; that I caught you without chasing.

That benevolence, despite the shadows into the hallway you reside. That patience despite the unbearable perennial humming of that junk in your room that continues with it's efforts to cool your nights. That strength, that energy, everything that makes you be alive and desire to continue to be.

It is overwhelming. Suffocating, even.

All that makes us alike pales before the vast repertoire of your being.

You've said what I dare not; you've seen what my dreams cannot fathom. You've lived what's beyond my comprehension.

You are not enough, but not because you are incomplete, but because I am.

I lack calluses and scars to know what mountain to cross, what path to choose. My ears were shut, my sight blurred. The twist in my tongue is witness of my early memories of fuzzy times with tiles of black and white tile, of kingdoms with twin stairs and sheets hanging between the houses. I lasted too much underneath the warmth of the fur of nameless pets. Too little were the scrapes kissed by tree branches, too gentle the raspy voice of someone who speaks of daisies as if they were people. Not even the thousand nights with thousand faceless giants could keep me from my garden of jazmin and pumpkin flowers.

You are not enough because you carry too much Sun, while I always hid in the fresh shadows. You are not enough because I lack life and you have too much to spare.

You are not enough, for you are too much and I'm too little.

"I think I've been set on fire, but to check I'd have to face myself in the mirror."

-Isabella Lamberty

Self-Portrait for Digital Image Making.

I'm going to explain to others that this is a personal piece. Some people are aware that I was physically and mentally abused as a child by my mother. As a result, I constantly see myself as a broken, damaged individual who doesn't deserve any happiness.

This portrait is suppose to show the result of how I see myself as a result of the years of abuse. I see myself as a ugly person that needs to be hidden. All I can see about my appearance is the physical marks I had and emotional scars I still have and continue to cope with.

I've never actually cut myself but I have attempted it multiple times to deal with my pain, which is why I drew them on my arms.

The second image is what I used as reference. It was shot by my Digital Painting professor.

@tenebriism // ryuji & yusuke!

Maybe he was right. ━ Right. in the way there was no maybe about it. He knew better. Ryuji wasn't stupid like that. He knew where his limits laid, claws in the sand, unregretful of their own existence like he at times wished they would be, and thus was on their behalf. He knew what was not enough and what was too much, pushing became shoving became something else ( something he doesn't like to talk about. Something that keeps finding him. )

but Ryuji's always been stubborn ━ it's just that this time, maybe it wasn't just being stubborn ( that something else conjuring a byproduct; hands heavy enough to be cruel, only to himself. only to himself. )

Claws in the sand, wishing he was more than he was, pushing then shoving then falling; being caught. being told something he knew, but wouldn't listen to. Slowing down.

Slowing down. Slow down.

Ryuji takes the time as Yusuke talks to catch his breath, chest heaving with a greater weight than it should, two times his size. convulses in relapsing effort to get enough air to the rest of him ( almost lightheaded ). a body rebelling against itself when pushed too far; one leg shaking that ripples throughout him as if a reminder of the consequence, a scar like a lightening strike across his knee back and along to his calf ━ visible at the hem of gym shorts as if reaching up to meet the fabric in familiarity of a time where it was born, and then revoked from.

” No, Yusuke, I just━ I needed━ “ the sentence dies, half focused on in its utterance in the first place, the attention cut then tapered. he finds himself white knuckling a support as his breathing begins to even out.

his entire body quakes with the intensity of that consequence, a vital support refusing the pushing to be pushed too far, refusing the criteria of its creation to be met twice. the scar; an ugly reminder. he finds himself staring at it as Yusuke speaks, hunched, kneecap shuddering as if given its own mind and the tendons down his calf like guitar strings in conviction of the same cause, before his attention gathers itself back to Yusuke when he begins to pull something from his bag ( confusion, then surprise. how often he forgets, how people love him. how they remember. )

his expression is not one of instant gratitude, or even of anger that spills from his shoulders into his collarbone and floods him, its indescribable, almost unnatural on his features ; Ryuji, always feeling in extremes, unable to solidify what he was feeling in the first place. ( This, too, was an extreme. you just didn't know the name of it. )

… the expression caves in on itself — 'softens', too romantic of a word — after a long moment to dissolve resolution and Ryuji limps, pain jolting up the back of his leg into the pelvis then echoing up his spine of which he understood better than anyone ever could, and he allows himself to — lacking grace — haphazardly drop into the spot assigned to him by Yusuke. His leg refuses to stop shaking despite the lack of pressure ( the pressure both was and was not the problem; always the strain. always the strain ; until it becomes too much. )

he feels pathetic like this, acid through steel, rust still creeping and eating at him. he tries to shake it off.

” Yeah. Thanks, Yusuke, I just… “ he trails off, and an unwillingness to admit what had driven him to extremes clumps in his throat like congealed blood from an old wound that wont close.

” I really want to be strong for the team. Guess I kinda got too in my head. I didn't mean to worry you or nothin'... Sorry... “