Fuck if I know...

Incredibly moving and thought provoking article on what I can only imagine to be the most difficult moment in any women’s life. Though I have never walked in those shoes, this brought tears to my eyes and made me take a very deep look inside myself and inside the women I know who have eendured this. The trauma they must go through, the loneliness, and the judgements placed upon them by those they feel most close to. 




oh my god today at walmart there was a notebook that said

wait i found a pic of it online


what the fuck it was like ok cute but then suddenly christianity

then suddenly christianity

that pretty much sums up world history

(Source: skygosh, via memewhore)

And then I read a post on never allowing someone with a psychiatric disorder to stop taking their meds. Well how about if they’re under 18, or if they’ve been mediated most of their life?

Psychiatric medicine has only been practiced for maybe sixty years, prior to that, very little was known on the subject. Its only been in the last ten to fifteen years that they’ve even begun to warn parents that these drugs cause suicidal thoughts and can exacerbate depression.

I am disgusted by the number of people who are prescribed antipsycotics. I do understand whole heartedly that some people do require these medications and many find a lot of help with them, but the cast majority should not require these. In retail pharmacy I saw hundreds of patients a day prescribed a medication cocktail comprised mostly of medications that they themselves didn’t require but the doctor prescribed anyways in order to narrow down the patients’ psychological problem.

I don’t feel that this is an adequate way of practicing medicine. Its not a guessing game or a ruling out of what a persons’ problems are. Instead it should be largely based on support, understanding, acceptance, and if needed; then medication. These people are sad, deranged, lost, and trapped within themselves, supplying them with medications that further seperate them from society isn’t solving the problem. Instead of seeking help and receiving false promises that these drugs will somehow magically create or repair synopsis, they should receive a support system comprised of individuals who truly care for them and want to see them better themselves and their own lives.

I hate psychiatric medicine, and because of that I feel great passion towards changing the way it is currently practiced. I have spent years researching from a practical stand point, I was raised in early childhood beside a none mediated scitzophrenic with manic depression, I have worked to supply thousands of people with these assumed wonder drugs. I want to be the change I believe this field needs.

I get so tired of people having the wrong impression of me. I’m really not nearly as bad as I’m given credit for. I can be very sweet, I am one of the most compassionate people you could know. I’m very honest and very genuine. I dot like to hurt people in any compasity  and I suppose that gets me into trouble.

My friends know what a good person I am and my ex’s can attest to how loving, sweet, and unforgettable I can be. Though I have walked a number  of dark corridors in my life, I have managed to retain a light and carefree spirit. I am intelligent, well spoken, and goal oriented. And anyone who calls themselves my friend is lucky to do so. am

Curious History:  Famous Demons

(Source: phalusifer, via aemiliamcmorbid)

I’ve come to learn a lot this year, I think taking some time away from the group and coming back was one of the best things I could have done. But I still often feel like the butt of jokes, the odd man out, if we were the wolfpack I would be Alan.

Its never been said so much as portrayed that way. I love the guys like brothers and sometimes wish I weren’t just another brother. I have a hard time finding the middle ground with groups of guys, you’re either the group pogo or one of the guys and I’ve spent my whole life in one classification or the other.

It sucks having it assumed that I have no emotions, i’m counted on, cared about, and respected; in my opinion more respected than most of the other girls not actually dating a group member.

I’m jealous. I’m frustrated, I keep hearing where my place is in the group and hearing what everyone thinks of me lately and though none has been bad, its all left an ashy taste on the tongue. Everyone says I need to make new or more friends, and I work on it but then alcohol takes over and I become a different person. I cease to care what anyone thinks and I just wrap myself in armor of indifference.

I boast about my awful past because it makes it easier to forget, somehow telling the stories make them feel more and more like just stories. I hate when people ask why or how I did the things I’ve done because I can’t answer the question. The reasons weren’t enough for people to understand. I wanted to show someone important to me that I could be monogamous, I could stay with someone through the shit and make things work. Unfortunately I always seem to pick the worst candidates to pursue. Which only furthers the opinion that i’m a bit on the fucked up side.

I just want to be seen by others as a see myself, hardworking, dedicated, selfless, loving, beautiful, intelligent, and successful. I don’t want any of my accomplishments to be disregarded, people don’t have to understand my struggle, I would just like it if they realized that there had been a struggle in the first place.

Bitch I don’t have to try to get some. Back your shit up or a little white girl is gonna have to show you what ghetto means. Mine is mine, back the Fuck off.

Someone ate my dinner and now I am sad. Luckily…I am very drunk.

A Thought

I often find myself wondering what people think when they see me. I know that this is counter productive, unhealthy, and does nothing to benefit my life in any way, yet I do it all the same.

My arms are long scarred, impersonating a slanted beaker more than a pair of shoulders. My friends say nothing, people my friends introduce to me say nothing, yet i find the eyes of strangers still being drawn to them. I find doctors who treat me either as a child or someone who needs institutionalized, though they never actually ask about them; actually theyre more likely to accuse me of being unwell.

I walked into my OBGYN’s office and when trying to explain that I believe that the high levels of progesterone and estrogen in the birth control i was on was causing anxiety, my doctor looked down at my arms then into my eyes and said that that was impossible and likely caused by my obviously occasionally fragile psyche. Never did he ask how fresh they may were, or if i had recieved treatment for the original cause (though in the same visit i did go on to explain it myself).

Ten years has been long enough to errase my scars, the internal at least, but i will be scarred with these marks until I am old and grey. I have no hope of covering them with tattoos because theyre raised. i can not cover them up because I live in an unforgiving desert where the very air wants to do what the razor blades and pills never could.

Recently I ran into an old high school acquaintance, though we were never friends he did know me during the shadowed years of my youth. He knew me when it was easy to joke about popping pills and ruining my skin on a nightly basis. When he saw me he mentioned knowing what I do for a profession, which is a pharmacy technician, and he told me it has a beautiful sense of irony behind it. I laughed and shrugged it off, said I had waited for someone to catch on to that and none have ever quite called me out to that regard; yet inside I was awash with self loathing. I distance myself as far from that past as I can however its a far more difficult process when you’re constantly reminded in the eyes of strangers and the words of friends.

I spend my life attempting to wrap myself in this shroud of forgetfulness, hoping that the world will do the same yet it never does. I tell myself that I am better than I was then and that the many years since should account for something but feel like the harder I try to fight it the more that I am pulled under.

I replaced the razor blades and pills, replaced them with kissed lips and spread legs. I replaced the hatred I had of myself with kind words of people who only wanted to use me. But its never really using when it goes both ways, or when for the most part I was the one who walked away. Always going for the nicer guys, the ones with bigger hearts and lower self esteems, the ones who needed me in a way they never knew when I needed them in ways I was well aware of.

I broke hearts and hurt good people, even good friends. And that too came to an end, though one that few seem to believe or to accept.

My friends are not the ones to lightly bring up my scars, but they are light in reminding me of promiscuity and other past mistakes. Not quick to realize the reasoning behind my actions, only quick to judge them. Quick to introduce and explain me as seemingly loose moralled. This when I fight so hard to be taken as a kind a thoughtful person, a good friend, a sister in all but blood. And I suppose they are quick to defend that, quick to say that all I do is in good intentions, yet they still mention my habits behind my back.

It is exceptionally difficult to look in the mirror some days, to see this face and not understand why I do the things I do. To continuously make faulty choices hoping for better out comes.

I want nothing more than what any average woman wants, to be loved, to love myself, to be understood and to understand myself. I want good laughs and full bottles, I want to see sites I’ve only imagined and share them with those I love, whether friend, lover, or family. I want people to see the face I see and not so much the face that I show because more and more I wonder if that face is mine at all.

In a recent conversation with an aquaintance I’ve known well enough over the last few years, he described me as insightful, caring, and always the last girl standing. I may end the night with my face in the toilet or a nice patch of grass but if you take the time to sit beside me, ill listen and ill talk like any normal person. But I have bad habits when drinking as well, my utter disregard for others’ wishes being one of them, another being my complete disregard for the things I may say or the image I may portray.

When you live so deeply in the lie that you are a good person and any would be lucky to call you their own, drinking can make you your own antagonist. Belittling all the hard work shaping the cowl required in the first place.

I believe I found my redemption at the bottom of every bottle yet it only takes one too many to set me back ten years, back into those days that were so full of mistakes and turbulence. And I always take that drink, then I double or triple it, sometimes even going far beyond that. I can’t handle the person I am and the person I so want to be, so I intoxicated myself to the point where it no longer matters. In the end exchanging my pills and razors for bottles of booze on the wall. Only killing myself in a different way, until that voice (usually the one of reason) ceases.