"Stop cringing – at your future, at your failure, at yourself in the mirror – and stand up and look directly at who you are. Not who you should've been, but who you are now. Let that person in. Let her be as mediocre and wrong and shameful and sad and miserable and brilliant and hilarious as she wants to be, because she knows exactly what you need to feel good. She has plans for you. She wants to show you what comes next. She wants to take you into the future you're dreading and say, "See? You never would've imagined this."
– Heather Havrilesky
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In the name of healing I bite chunks of myself daily, spit them out in my hand with the intention to wash it away later
Eventually, i end up over analyzing them, like everything else in my life
grafts of all the causes I’m still here, glued together by my mother’s fears
be the Alpha female, she said. “feed on your most beloved, a cup of the moon’s blood every night before bed for you to run alone forever, run wild, never slip”
I Shower myself with self-loathing, lick my own wounds close Keep me sane, keep me safe
loneliness to me is just another insecurity that is dangling from my prefrontal cortex, dangling right in front of my eyes… for me to see the world through it.
I spend hours looking at the bloody chunks in my hand, thinking where did i go wrong ? how much can I hold on to this heartache ?
I've been running around it all my life, running around red lines, red lines circle me, i run in circles around myself I’m all that I’ve ever knew, yet, I only know myself in fading
A distant memory, a deja vu…
All I really know, is that the only stable in my life is the fact that I exist, and that it’s a temporary state.
jamais vu.
will the lines fade if i eat what i bit off of myself again ? if i chew and chew and chew… If i teach myself to stomach it will i be whole again?
is holding on to those pieces enough to satisfy my desire to be held ?
Or does it make me a feral rogue ?
Schizophrenic delusions ticking in my head…
Sometimes I wonder if it’s my fault that I’m this alone…
then again I wasn’t the one feeding myself all the insecurities as a young child.
I wasn’t the one playing pretend.
It was never my fault, my mother thought faking happiness is the way to protect me, it was never my fault father wasn’t interested in the details, as long as I was his perfect girl…
Now, I can’t hold on to anything the way i hold on to the lunatic turmoil that makes me sway and laugh on my own personal misery.
Call it history.
Hide behind defensive humor, get my inner demons drunk on caffeine, mistake that high for happiness cause mama did too…
And wait for caffeine withdrawal to wake us up, both of us…
I’ve never been hangover, but I imagine this is how it’ll feel
The aura ? The migraine?
The urge to throw myself up to be reborn clean.
•••
•Quotes: Olivia Laing/Heather Havrilesky/ Olivia Laing/ Marya Hornbacher/Anaïs Nin/Camille Norton/ Alice Oseman/ eduardo C. Corral/anne carson/ Joanne Harris/ Hannah Green/Hannah Green/Lisel Mueller
•Original context: sinligh
•Art reference:
1. Sasha Hartslief, Late Night Shower, 2021. 2. Getting Up by Vincent Giarrano. 3.illustration by Owen Gent. 4. The Lovers on the Bridge, 1991. 5. "Beverly Edmier 1967' Keith Edmier, 1998
•song recommendation:
P.s: the whole album is a masterpiece ! Give it a try, thank me later.
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Shame is the opposite of art. When you live inside of your shame, everything you see is inadequate and embarrassing. A lifetime of traveling and having adventures and not being tethered to long-term commitments looks empty and pathetic and foolish, through the lens of shame. … Shame turns every emotion into the manifestation of some personality flaw, every casual choice into a giant mistake, every small blunder into a moral failure. Shame means that you’re damned and you’ve accomplished nothing and it’s all downhill from here.
You need to discard some of this shame you’re carrying around all the time. But even if you can’t cast off your shame that quickly, through the lens of art, shame becomes valuable. When you’re curious about your shame instead of afraid of it, you can see the true texture of the day and the richness of the moment, with all of its flaws. You can run your hands along your own self-defeating edges until you get a splinter, and you can pull the splinter out and stare at it and consider it. When you face your shame with an open heart, you’re on a path to art, on a path to finding joy and misery and fear and hope in the folds of your day.
Heather Havrilesky (Ask Polly - “I’m Broke and Mostly Friendless, and I’ve Wasted My Whole Life”)
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