Throam Ryan Ross - Tumblr Posts

future past:

because its everything, no, everything was never the deal. shut the door on terrible times. my shoes are an altar: remembrance: the things i love. can i trust you? would you lie to me? i wish i could disappear into the ground. be wiped from everyone's memory. i was never here, i never existed. maybe i'll wake up. i don't remember my first out of body experience. i don't remember my last. its amazing, the things you miss when you aren't paying. paying attention. i'm not ready for the questions. the stares. the comments. i've faced enough alienation in my life, and i don't need more. i don't enjoy it. but i worship it: alienation. he gave me words, no, he took me by the neck, threw me against a wall, and shoved it down my throat. and i will worship it. do i tell her? should i wait until i'm older? would you lie to me? i run in these circles. its your choice: my diary is an open book and you can decide if you want to know everything about me. its a tv series, you can't miss an episode unless you want to be lost. i'm the only fan of this one, i may be the only one that fully understands my story. my references. i may be the only one to ever read my writing in its entirety. someday i want to help the kids. not because i am good at comforting, but because i can show them there is hope for the future. i want to be what i've never had. growing up is terrifying, and all i see are unhappy adults. not just you, mom. its everyone. everyone's miserable. i can't spend the rest of my life wandering dead mall halls, sunny "self care days" drag on for years, and before you know it, i've wasted my life on never growing up. they tell me to be a kid now. i'm already feeling the stress of someone far older than me. and all i can do about it is lay idle in bed. she says i'm depressed. its not something i'm new to, but its something i'm beginning to fully realize the extent of its ass kicking abilities. showering isn't a chore for everyone. getting out of bed isn't dreadful for everyone. friends aren't terrible. i miss that glorious time when i loved my friends. now it feels like haven't been loved in years: i don't know what it is with you and the joy you suck out of my life all while making me think you're the best thing thats ever happened to me. don't feel sorry for me, i've never been better. i feel exhausted just getting out of bed and crossing my bedroom. i don't know how i'm still functional. i'm barely keeping it together. but maybe someday i'll be something. maybe i'll look back on this and think: realize: i'm delusional. the most beautiful thing ever is how these words withstand the years of seasons changing, wind battering the shit out of me, golden, heat, sub-zero. these are just glimpses of feelings turned thoughts turned words. maybe this is who i really am. thirty years from now i'll be on the same hamster wheel in my head, running in these same circles. peace: is a boat on the atlantic ocean. 50°f. overcast day. me and kafka ride up the shore, canadian water. back home theres vinyls. stonewall. silence. but for now i'm a---

i find its a lot easier to understand my window of tolerance nowadays than i ever have before. i think its funny: i can look back and see when i was thinking rationally rather than when i wasn't. and its all thanks to different circumstances. being overwhelmed isn't an excuse to be an asshole, however, being overwhelmed is an excuse to be an asshole. honestly, i'm transcribing every word in my head as it comes. and you eat this shit right up. god, am i a disillusioned rockstar already? god, i'm so tired. god, are you real? rocks and stars, hell, the rockstars say you aren't. someone outta put a bullet in his head. for now i'm twenty two twenty twenty two twenty twenty two twenty twenty two twenty and its only a matter of time before you're crossing country borders to run from what you're doing. soon everyone will know. you go against all the ethos, pathos, and logos, or maybe just ethics. its. a grey conversation.

yours truly

dear s,

i find it is so much easier to live when i “separate the art from the artist”. in this case, i imagine your kind loving words have taken the form of some anonymous, generic body, living in some anonymous, generic location, maybe with no face or anything like that. maybe you—

dear s,

don’t mind the blood stained seat, i slit my wrists so much the other night, i wanted to kill myself. i should donate this car to a forensics lab. cause of death: blood loss and chronic numbness. thank god leather is easy to clean. i told him about this. i don’t know why. i was dying to tell someone, like a sick victory. and he proceeded with caution, i could feel his concerned, almost disgusted look on his face, through the text. like maybe he could be angry.

“i’m sorry, i really shouldn’t have done this,”

“i would rather you talk to me and tell me the truth and make things a lil harder for me than for you to not say anything at all and i have no clue how you are”

how could someone genuinely care about me so much? i don’t trust this. feels like a joke, a game, something that will end in fighting and tears because that’s all i know how to do.

and dear s, the other day i cried in my car and i asked you to grab my stuff and bring it to me, and you did. and you stayed with me until you knew i was going to be okay. but i couldn’t stop hyperventilating, shaking, sobbing, it wasn’t a panic attack. i broke down crying in front of these three grown men. i don’t remember what any of them were saying, i don’t remember why everything ended the way it did, i just knew i was upset, and i don’t even remember being upset. but i felt pathetic collecting myself in front of them, so i made myself cry, but soon i couldn’t help it, and that’s maybe when i started panicking. when the shaking wasn’t voluntary, when the erratic breathing wasn’t a joke, something like that.

dear s,

i’ve recently started to realize my childhood wasn’t as golden as i originally thought. i didn’t think anything was wrong until my mother started to profusely apologize for being a terrible parental figure to me, for the awful things she did to me as a kid. and i didn’t get it until i tried to convince her otherwise, until she told me i hide my emotions, until i was on the verge of tears, screaming at her in a parking lot.

“you know the reason i hide my emotions? because when i was a kid, you’d scream at me and hit me if i cried! and you only got worse if i cried harder, and i’d cry harder because you kept hurting me. you know how many migraines i’ve had because you’d hit my head so much? you know half the scars on my arms are because of your own hands? so i cry silently, and i know how to zone out when you scream at me so i don’t cry, but sometimes you think i’m smirking, and you end up hurting me anyways. i walk on eggshells around you because i don’t want to get hurt”

quietly, she tells me, “see, i did mess you up.”

i don’t know what came over me but its all starting to make sense.

she tells me stories of how her father treated her as a kid, somewhat similar to my experiences as a kid. she tells me she was diagnosed with ptsd, but didn’t know why. and it wasn’t until i was in middle school that she started to understand it. by then it was too late to change the damage that was already done.

dear s,

i almost checked myself into a hospital. but what would they do? give me more meds, a slap on the wrist, and send me on my merry way?

“this has nothing to do with you,” you tell me, but i can’t help but feel that this is all my doing.

but hey, maybe we’ve changed so much we wouldn’t recognize each other if we saw each other again. nothing so special about “us”.

yours truly,

леви

how could i forget? you play sick games on me in my sleep every night. my body goes through the motions of being terrified (i wake up to scratches all over me, and the inside of my mouth chewed to shreds). my mind is blank, no matter what fucked up things you do to me in my sleep.

i half wonder if this is the end. i'm doing better now. i don't want to say goodbye, but i don't know when i'll see you again. i wonder if you feel used. i sure do.

lost cause

i mean it when i say i truly am a dead end. i don’t deserve the money and energy and relationships i destroy trying to get better. i’m doing everything i can. i do the talk therapy, i take my meds and supplements, i eat the right food, talk to my friends, go for walks, sit in front of sun lamps and tell myself i’m a good person yet i’m still fucking sad. my therapist says that really all i can do is find the right meds. vincent says my therapist is shit. he doesn’t get it. there’s nothing i need to talk through, i’ve written my way out of all my problems except this.

at some point, you’ve got to swallow your pills and accept that this is as good as its ever going to get.

but i can’t help but whine, “it’s not fair!” that everyone else can talk their way out of things and i’m left stuttering and desperate sputtering out sophisticated words in a pathetic attempt to get my point across.

but i can’t help but wonder if killing myself isn’t a bad option. i mean seriously, what else is there left for me? what’s the point of this shit if i’m just going to be a shaky grey line, a greasy 6B pencil held at a 170° angle, down a newsprint pad held in your non dominant hand, shaking because you haven’t eaten in a day or so and its starting to show.

and sometimes i wonder if tonight is the night. but it never is. but sometimes i wonder if i’ll man up enough to do it.

untitled no. 17

i just want to scream. i don’t have words. trying to figure out songwriting when i no longer write like i used to.

“chronic: can last for years or be lifelong.”

little snippets from middle school and lives that no longer exist, at least the way they used to.

picked up a guitar again, started carrying stickers and a white lighter with me wherever i go.

i am growing into a sad child.

its a shitty collage of words, it forms a picture but it’s not a pretty one.

and yet i can’t put my finger on what makes me sad and empty, which is perhaps what sets me apart from people who are just sad.

thirty feet below me are theatre kids projecting their shitty transatlantic accents out to an old theatre with nasty orange seats. i can't understand what they're saying but the audience laughs occasionally. something interferes with my headset and buzzes data indecipherable to me.

i’m laying, staring up past the black light into the ropes of our single purchase system, contemplating the consequences of climbing a little higher and falling a little farther.

it follows me everywhere.

or maybe i drag it with me without even realizing it. like we’re chained up, unsure, terrified, unwilling to know what life is like without it.

(i make it so obvious for anyone with any clue about me. i wonder what you think about it.)

“i love her,”

you do? those are words you threw out like candy at a parade until one day i noticed you stopped saying it back when i said it. did you know i had to force myself to say it? because i didn’t believe it, but it was easier to say it than to deal with the consequences of silence after you—

sometimes i find myself getting wound up about all that happened but i have to remember to take a step back. nothing about you has changed, she’s getting the same treatment as me. (it was shit,) and part of me wants to cover her ears and eyes but i don’t know what good that would do when the chemicals are already doing it. but maybe an absence of it would force her to stop and think. but even then it would take months for it to clear out, so there’s nothing i can do because i can guarantee you, nothing will get through to her.

i’d like to be there to pick up the broken pieces. i can’t put them back together, but i can let her know it was okay, it was an ugly vase anyway. the sentimental value will eventually fade away and you won’t even remember anymore. we’re too young, do you understand what you’re doing to her? this is manipulation, this is being taken advantage of, but you don’t even realize it.

be pissed at me all you want, but all around this is pathetic. what brings you here? the same reason as me?

three of thirty nine and counting - леви 2023

you handed over pieces of yourself. i told you from the beginning, this was a terrible idea. imaginary friend perched on a stool in the kitchen, waiting for me to gather up the courage to choke down my morning pills.

its not all about you, now, is it?

“i am almost completely soulless,”

i need to throw away everything in my room, throw away all my plants, throw away all my clothes, all my art,

“i am incapable of being human,”

i’m not thinking straight and i don’t remember how to calm down because everything i’m doing isn’t helping. i’ll try a different song, hell, an audiobook, deep breaths, god, i hate the feeling of coming down,

“i am incapable of being inhuman,”

why do i do this to myself again? its not unlike you to shit talk me backstage, and i’m sorry no one told you, (i thought someone would,) and its not unlike you to think everything is about you,

“i am living uncontrollably,”

(i watch your hair fall all over your face and i’ll look away and i’ll swear to never think about you like that again) and you’ll think that secret’s about you but its fucking not. i don’t think about you as much as you think i do.

(i’m lying to you and i’m lying to me,)

you, of all people, should understand, right? you should see through this, but you fucking don't.