dare to dream

thursdaysangel-tuesdaysdemon:

thecutestofthecute:

So I lost like 10 followers for posting pictures of rottweilers

okay

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then

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fine

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Puppy party without you guys

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LATER HATERS

WHY WOULD YOU UNFOLLOW OVER ADORABLE PUPPIES

(via attack-on-calculus)

i.c. // Thought of the Day #4 
there’s someone inside me,
that hates who I am. (via delicatepoetry)

(via delicatepoetry)

There’s a voice inside my head, that sounds like my own, but it’s not me. It can’t be me. I mean, who the hell would treat themselves this bad? Please, tell me I’m not crazy.

i.c. // “I have battled this for so long, I can’t give up now.” (via delicatepoetry)

(via delicatepoetry)

I. The first time I ever wanted to die, I was eleven years old. I even wrote a poem about it and everything, my mother found it in my drawer one day. She just hugged me, but that didn’t make the sadness go away.

II. I never really knew what suicide was until I turned twelve and googled what I wanted to do to myself. It was always in the back of my mind, like a book begging to be read, sitting on the shelf.

III. When I was thirteen, I had a best friend and one day I told her how I was so sad I couldn’t take it anymore. She told me about her cousin, the one that overdosed three times and died the fourth, she said he felt that way before.

IV. At fourteen I remember arriving one day at school and rumor had it this girl had killed herself last night. I felt my stomach turn and twist inside, I mourned her spirit and acknowledged her fight. While most of the kids made jokes about how her wrists were cut open, and how she had it coming because she was “emo,” I choked back tears. I didn’t know her but I knew what she going through after experiencing it all these years.

V. One night when I was fifteen I took a blade to my wrist and watched as the blood rushed out, in that moment it was the only way I knew how to cope. I lost all sense of hope. Months later it became too much of a bad habit I couldn’t dare stop, I felt like I was losing control of the knife. So that’s when I decided to down the bottle of sleeping pills and take my life. I had shaky hands and sweaty palms, my eyes were watery and I didn’t know if this was wrong. So I set the bottle down to think it over, it shouldn’t take this long..

VI. A year later when I was sixteen I still went back to that night inside my head, no one knew that right now I could’ve been dead. I finally told my mom how I felt inside, and all the horrid feelings
I tried to hide. She took me to a doctor and I was put on pills, I thought my life would be better, happier, and filled with thrills… I was wrong because they only could help so much, I still had to fight each and every night.

VII. I’m seventeen now, I am left with scars on my body and a fragile heart. I am better than I was before, because I’m teaching myself this illness won’t dare tear me apart. I won’t give up this game of tug of war inside my brain, because it’s taught me things about myself that others can’t attain. I will fight and never give up, this is a promise to me and you. If you’re going through the same thing I am, promise me you will fight too?

i.c. // accomplishments come in all sizes
(sometimes it’s just getting up in the
morning.)

(via delicatepoetry)

This morning after I woke, I laid in bed and stared
at the ceiling for about thirty minutes, trying to
convince myself there was a reason to get up.
It was a fight, just to get my body to move,
because when my mind is going back and forth,
good vs bad, it almost paralyzes me. It’s like,
my whole body becomes numb and immune to
everything around me while inside my head there
is a war, a battle that I may never win. So I lay there,
almost lifeless as a dead body, “I have to get up.”
My body said yes, but my mind said no, slowly as
I could I got my feet on the floor but stared at the
wall some more. It took everything in me not to flop
back onto the pillow, only because the little voice
in my head was saying,
“there’s no use, why get up? This day is a waste,
your life is a waste.”
For a moment there, I almost let myself become
weightless and fall back into bed. Yet I knew
that’s what the demons wanted that haunt my head.

i.c.  //  enjoying sadness (via delicatepoetry)

(via delicatepoetry)

My therapist tapped her pen, and looked at me
with her chin in her hand, frustration filled the room.
“I think you enjoy being sad.”

There was silence for a minute or two, because
there was a small conflict in my mind, no, I don’t
enjoy this sadness. Yet it’s the only time I feel
alive, because it’s the only god damn time I feel
something. When your bones feel so heavy and
every breath you take you feel like you’re breathing
just to die, and when you need to talk to yourself for a
good 30 minutes after you wake up just to get the
motivation to move, sometimes feeling something,
a cut on the wrist, a tear on your cheek, a cry in the
middle of the night, it means more. It means that you’re
actually alive, because most the time I feel like I’m dead,
I wish I was dead. Sadness means I’m not dead.

“No, I don’t.